Dance with the Devil
by ShyUnicorn
Summary: Four years after Voldemort is vanquished Astoria Greengrass starts working for 'Witch Weekly' magazine as a feature writer. Her very first job is to interview Draco Malfoy who has just made his first million galleons without the aid of his rich parents. What happens when they meet?
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Dance with the Devil  
**Author Name:** Shy Unicorn  
**Rating:**M  
**Genre:** Romance/Friendship  
**Main Character(s):** Astoria Greengrass and Draco Malfoy  
**Ship(s):** Astoria/Draco, Lucius/Narcissa, Narcissa/OC, Lucius/OC  
**Summary:** Four years after Voldemort is vanquished Astoria Greengrass starts working for 'Witch Weekly' magazine as a feature writer. Her very first job is to interview Draco Malfoy who has just made his first million galleons without the aid of his rich parents. What happens when they meet?  
**Author's Note (A/N):**I feel really out of writing practice, so to keep me in the habit I've started **Dance with the Devil.** I hope you like it.

**Dance with the Devil**

**Chapter One: Fresh Blood**

It's seven A.M, the first Monday in September, which also means it's my first day as an Assistant Feature Writer at the prestigious _Witch Weekly_ magazine. It's my first grown-up, salary-paying, adult job after leaving Hogwarts and I am having some serious first day nerves. I am beyond excited, which is perhaps why it feels like there's a kitten in my stomach tugging at my insides like they're a ball of yarn.

I stand in the living room clutching my mug of tea and stare intently at my reflection in the mirror hanging above the fireplace. My blue eyes look speculatively back at me. My dark blonde hair is tied back in a neat ponytail and I've spent ages trying to get my make-up and my outfit just right.

I want it to say: I'm a serious writer. Take me seriously.

What I think my appearance actually says is: I've just finished a six-month unpaid internship at Whizz Hard books and I don't have any money to buy cool clothes right now.

I'm wearing a white short-sleeved oxford shirt (left over from my Hogwarts uniform) and a light blue skirt my older sister Daphne got me for my birthday back in May. I'm in my socks but I can see the brown suede brogues I'm going to wear to complete the outfit out of the corner of my eye.

I take a deep breath and give myself a stern look. _You are a smart, capable woman and you can do this,_ I say in my mind while I squint at my face trying to work out if my eyeliner wings are level.

That sounds exactly like something my mum will say to me over dinner tonight. She's always talking about strong and empowered women, but that's because she is one. She's a Healer at St. Mungo's and runs a whole department by herself. It's easy for her to say that kind of thing, she's a certified badass.

"Hey, Astoria. Ready for your big day?" a familiar voice behind me says.

I turn around and see Xenia, my flatmate and best friend in the entire world zip into the kitchen to get her morning coffee fix. Our apartment is small and the kitchen, living room and dining room are all essentially one room with mismatched furniture.

Xenia's still in an oversized t-shirt and knee socks, her curly brown hair spiraling out around her like it's an aura. I know she has to Floo to work in the next 15 minutes. Time-keeping is not her strong suit.

"Erm, Xen, you do know it's 7:15, don't you?" I point out anxiously.

"Coffee first – that's my motto. I'm _invincible_ after my first cup," she says, flicking her wand so cups and carafes whiz through the air. "You want some?"

"I'm good," I say and gesture to my cold half-drunk cup of tea. "I should probably go. I want to make a good impression."

"You will," Xenia says confidently, slouching back against the countertops and grinning at me. "They hired you, didn't they? How many people did you beat out for the position? You'll be great. You're an awesome writer."

"Thanks," I mumble, smiling a little. Xenia always knows just what to say to make me feel better.

There's a muffled crash and a door slamming and Pace appears, throwing his messenger bag over his shoulder. He grins at me as he comes down the hall. Pace is short and spry. He's Chinese and has these incredible almond shaped eyes that are honest and kind.

"Good Luck on your Big Day. Are you around tonight? I got a last minute DJ slot over at the Misty Moon, you fancy coming to support a brutha?"

Pace is always throwing out gangsta phrases even though he's the least intimidating person I know. He's very stylish, which can intimidate some people, but he works for Gringotts so he's not getting his gold nefariously.

"I can't. I'm having dinner with the fam," I tell him as he lines up slices of bread under the grill. "I could maybe come afterward, what time are you on?"

"Nah, I'm playing the early slot. Have fun with your family, enjoy your mum's cooking," he says slyly and winks at me. My mum has an interesting approach to cooking, let's put it that way. "What about you, Xen?"

Xenia nods enthusiastically but is too busy gulping down coffee to make a verbal reply.

"Okay, well, I'd better go," I broadcast, glancing at the clock. "Have fun tonight, guys. I expect a full report of the night's antics tomorrow morning."

"Are you reporting on us now?" Xenia teases as I go out into the hall to put on my shoes and pick up my satchel.

"Yes!" I yell, my voice echoing playfully in the narrow space, as I wiggle on my shoes. "You'd better watch what you do and say around me because you'll end up as _Witch Weekly_ fodder if you aren't careful."

"Okay! We've been warned," Pace replies patiently.

"CRAP!" Xenia exclaims and streaks into her bedroom.

The door crashes shut behind her. She has maybe five minutes to spare before she needs to be in her office in the heart of the Ministry of Magic.

"Bye!" I call, opening the door to leave. "Be good!"

My journey to work is simple – go down five flights of stairs and Apparate beneath the apple tree in the back garden.

We live on the sixth floor of an old London townhouse that's been converted into apartments. From the street it looks like this beautiful old Victorian house, from the inside you really get a crash course in dilapidation. This morning the weather is warm outside so it smells particularly mildewy as I descend the stairs.

Once out in the garden I check that none of the neighbors are looking my way and in one turn I'm gone.

My ears pop as I appear in Diagon Alley. I straighten myself out and poke at my right ear trying to get the ringing to stop. I've materialized outside _Eeylop's Owl Emporium_ like always. It's been the standard meeting place for me and my friends since we were first allowed to buy our school supplies without parents. It's become my default Apparition spot.

This morning the air smells sweet and promising, it's a warm morning that's probably going to turn into a scorching hot day. There are very few people out as I make my way towards the tall stone building that houses _The Daily Prophet_ and _Witch Weekly's_ headquarters.

I was here a month ago when I came for the job interview and strangely, I was less nervous then than I am now. At the time I didn't think I'd get the job. I knew the only reason I even had an interview was because Pansy Parkinson, one of my sister's friends, works in _Witch Weekly's _Fashion department. She got me the interview as a favor to my sister.

The interview really swung my way when I got chatting with Bernice Mills, _Witch Weekly's_ feature writer. She was a famous war reporter back in the day during the first of You Know Who's uprisings. She's a big deal in the world of journalism and she took a shine to me, so she employed me and I was spared having to work as Pansy Parkinson's underling.

I guess that's why I'm so nervous. Bernice is taking a big chance on me. I don't have a background in journalism, apart from occasionally writing for the Hogwarts school paper. My internship with Whizz Hard was in editing and I really want to be a novelist. However, I'm over the moon at having an actual paid writing job. I _really_ don't want to mess it up.

As I approach the doors to _The Daily Prophet_ I see a girl who's been loitering nearby lock her attention on me. She's got incredible blue-black skin and long, raven black hair. Her outfit is the epitome of Wizard street style from her high-low skirt to her 50 pence piece necklace. I know she's going to speak to me before she says a word.

"Hi, do you work here?" Her voice is direct just like her words.

"Um, yeah, I guess I do." This earns me a questioning look. "I'm about to start my first day," I admit.

The girl visibly relaxes a little. "Me too. I saw you Apparate and I just knew by the way you're dressed you were coming here too."

Her validation of my outfit feels like eating chocolate after Dementors have attacked.

"Where are you starting?" I think I already know the answer but it's the obvious thing to ask.

"Fashion," the girl says proudly. "You?"

"Features," I say and she looks surprised. "Shall we go up to the office?" I ask and begin to lead the way.

It feels so much less scary now that I'm not going to have to walk in alone.

"Wow, you must be a really good writer. They never take feature writers straight out of Hogwarts."

I don't know whether to be flattered or upset by this remark, so it's a good job we're walking single file up the stairs so my new colleague can't see my face. I graduated from Hogwarts two years ago. I'm probably older than her. Now I wonder if my outfit looks too juvenile or she just assumed we're the same age.

"What House were you in at Hogwarts?" I ask, more because we have Hogwarts in common than because I really care about her answer.

"Hufflepuff. What about you?"

"My parents were both in Hufflepuff," I say brightly and to soften the blow of what comes next. "I was in Slytherin."

"Slytherin, really?" the girl says and I notice she's become a little cool with me.

We've reached the top of the stairs and are on the landing outside the main doors of the _Witch Weekly_ office. I catch her giving me an assessing once over as if she's checking me for concealed weapons.

I open my mouth to reassure her that I'm beyond house rivalries but the office doors open and the Editor in Chief, a truly terrifying witch named Ottoline Higgs-Misslethorpe appears. Even the air seems to freeze.

Higgs is in her sixties or seventies, with short iron grey hair, an austere mouth and a huge hooked nose like Professor Snape used to have. She's skeletally thin so that her fashionable robes hang artfully from her clothes horse frame. She's slightly jowly and the skin of her decolletage is crepey from years of exotic holidays.

Essentially she looks like most Pureblood witches who have spent their lives as socialites baking in the sun, with one exception – she's my boss. To be specific she's my boss's boss. She owns _Witch Weekly_.

"You must be the Fresh Blood," she drawls, turning her heavy lidded eyes on us. Her voice is very deep for a woman and cold like the bottom of a well.

Me and Hufflepuff Girl find ourselves nodding.

My mouth feels oddly dry and sandpapery. The ambitious part of my brain tells me I should introduce myself, make myself known to her but my survival instinct tells me better not.

"Come inside," Higgs says, opening the door a fraction wider.

The moment I step into the _Witch Weekly_ office I feel a wave of pleasure and awe that I get to work in such a place.

No one else is around and the office is calm and quiet. Golden sunlight falls on shiny walnut desks in huge shafts through the skylights and the windows. The floor is varnished oak beams, the walls washed white except for one at the head of the room. It's papered in a purple William Morris inspired design with vines that move and flowers that seem to track the movement of the sun. Adorning this wall are covers from famous issues dating back to when the magazine was founded in the 1860's.

I stand uncertainly in the middle of the room between lines of desks. Pansy Parkinson's domain is clearly at the back end of the office. There's a large mood board propped against the wall with everything from fabric samples to photographs of models tacked to it.

Beside the small kitchenette is a desk with tissues, tea bags and a little postcard that reads 'Smile it could be worse: you could be a Squib!' which strikes me as being more than a little prejudiced. I still have it pegged as the desk belonging to the Agony Aunt whose name I've forgotten. I probably won't learn it, much less take her advice.

Sounds of approaching people draw mine and the other girls' attention. There's puffing and laughing and the general chatter of several women in one place. Bernice, my boss, is the first through the door. She's short and plump, probably in her fifties, with an open, pretty face and stunning green eyes. She reminds me of a Siamese cat with those eyes, bright and intelligent.

"Morning, Astoria," she says to me at once.

I feel a wave of warmth towards her when she a) remembers my name, and b) pronounces it correctly.

"Want a tea?" she asks me, rummaging through her bag and making her way to her desk. She produces a sweet looking little cupcake that's slightly lopsided from being in her bag.

"For you," she says handing it to me, looking as proud as if she'd produced a rabbit from inside her bag.

"Why? I mean, thank you," I add, taking the cake in both hands is if it were a precious gift from a deity.

"You're going to need it come this afternoon," Bernice says without a trace of humor. "We've a lot to get through today. Slurp while we work, eh?"

She drops her bag down on her chair because there's not a single bit of space on her desk and strides purposefully towards the kitchenette. Her desk is completely obscured. One trough of scrolls, a wooden tray of envelopes and a tottering tower of parchment occupy the center. Photographs of family and writing paraphernalia crowd the edges.

I spot the empty desk opposite hers and I run my hand lovingly over the shiny surface. This is my very own desk, I think delightedly. I sort of want to hug it.

"Hi, A, how's it going?"

Pansy Parkinson has a big fake smile plastered over her face. She pulls me into an unexpected embrace and air kisses either side of my face; the over familiarity of it rattles all of my British sensibilities.

I don't dislike Pansy but then I don't exactly like her either. She was Daphne's best friend in school but on the flip side she was also Daphne's worst enemy, if you get what I mean. They don't really talk anymore. It's awkward because in some ways I owe Pansy big time for helping me land this job.

"Hi, how're you?"

"Oh, I'm fine," she says in that vague airy way that could mean anything from 'I'm dying inside' to 'I'm having the best day of my life.' "Have you seen my new girl, Fabiola Deng?" she adds in a dramatic undertone that smacks of disapproval.

"Yeah, I did. She seems cool," I say, because I feel some kind of solidarity with Fabiola.

Pansy gives me a hard look, as if she's shocked that I don't agree with her. We don't have time to say any more because Bernice is back.

"Morning, Pansy. Come on, Astoria, let's get down to business. We've got an exciting day ahead of us."

I pull up a chair and sit at Bernice's desk with her. She hands me a flora print mug that's chipped a little at the rim. Her cup is equally beaten up and I'm not surprised when I realize it's from the Irish Quidditch World Cup several years back.

"Right," she says, settling back into her chair, which she transfigures into a leather wing-back armchair.

"This is going to be Features 101, I'm afraid. The holiday's over and we've got the Autumn Quarter to plan. We work in quarters, three months to a quarter, four quarters to a year, yadda-yadda-yadda." Bernice gestures dismissively and I sip my tea.

I wonder fleetingly if I should make notes. I grab a quill from my satchel and Bernice passes me a sheet of parchment as she starts talking again.

"This is how we're going to work. You become a good writer by being the student of good writers. I want you to read widely, I want you to think about what makes a piece of journalism _resonate_. Yes?"

I nodded furtively, jotting her words down in a strange shorthand I use for last minute exam revision.

"You only get good at something by doing it often, so I want you to write a couple of pieces over the next month. If you have any ideas you can pitch them, we'll see if they fit with the magazine's style. If they do, great, we'll run them, if not, well… maybe we'll see what the _Prophet_ downstairs has to say. If they don't fit there, hey, it was practice. Sound good?"

"Yeah!" I say, not able to keep the delight from my voice.

I thought I'd be scampering around getting people's lunches and twiddling with my quill the first couple of months. Bernice's faith in me is such a rush.

"I've set a couple of things aside for you," Bernice tells me while I'm scribbling away.

"Your first gig is a piece we're doing on Draco Malfoy. He's just made his first million galleons independent of his family fortune. Apparently he's a self-made man these days. It's just a simple Q&A type thing. He's very private and wary of reporters. The meeting's set up for tomorrow lunch at _The Heliotrope Hotel_."

"Tomorrow?" Wow, she's really not waiting around, is she?

"Is that a problem?" Bernice asks me kindly but fixes her cat-like eyes on me.

"Uh, no, it's no problem. I just don't know much about him," I admit awkwardly. "If you were hoping my Slytherin connection was going to help get the dirt on him it won't."

Bernice looks thoughtfully at me. My mind makes the obvious leap that she thinks because I'm a Slytherin I'm not being honest with her, that I'm lying to protect my own kind. That _is_ how we Slytherins work.

"I just thought two young people might have more to talk about than an old fuddy-duddy like me. That's all," she says lightly and shrugs.

I believe her and relax. Clearly Fabiola's reaction got under my skin and has made me edgy. I want people to like me.

"No, you're right, that does sound like a good idea."

"No one knows much about Draco Malfoy, my dear. He's a peculiar young man, especially when one thinks who is parents are." Bernice gives me a look that tells me she clearly thinks very little of the elder Malfoys. "No one has heard a peep from him in four long years, not since Harry Potter vanquished…"

Bernice can't quite bring herself to fill in this blank and she doesn't need to. It's been four years and people are still uncomfortable saying You Know Who or Lord Voldemort or the Dark Lord, any of his old names. It's still too fresh.

Even on this sunny morning in the Witch Weekly office an icy chill has come over me. My arms have goosebumps and the little hairs on the back of my neck are standing up.

I shiver hard.

What has Draco Malfoy been doing in secret for the last four years?


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** Dance with the Devil  
**Author Name:** Shy Unicorn  
**Rating:**M  
**Genre:** Romance/Friendship  
**Main Character(s):** Astoria Greengrass and Draco Malfoy  
**Ship(s):** Astoria/Draco, Lucius/Narcissa, Narcissa/OC, Lucius/OC  
**Summary:** Four years after Voldemort is vanquished Astoria Greengrass starts working for 'Witch Weekly' magazine as a feature writer. Her very first job is to interview Draco Malfoy who has just made his first million galleons without the aid of his rich parents. What happens when they meet?  
**Author's Note (A/N):**Here's the big meeting you've all been looking forward to. I'd love to hear what you think, especially as I've never written grown-up Draco before! Feedback, tips, constructive criticism and squeeing are always welcome.

**Dance with the Devil**

**Chapter Two: The Heliotrope Hotel**

_The Heliotrope Hotel_ is a massive, gothic looking Victorian mansion in Tinworth, right on the cliff overlooking the black-grey Atlantic. It's the sort of place where rich European witches and wizards come to get a taste of Blighty and have all those weird stereotypes about British wizards confirmed.

Whenever me and my family visited Tinworth we'd stay at the cozy B&B in town, the one with talking mirrors and blankets that smelt of dust and lavender like my Granny's house.

I figure Draco Malfoy has picked the venue for the interview. It's quiet and out of the way, there will only be end of season stragglers booked in to the hotel and even then they're likely to be old money, pureblood types. His sort of people.

I've wracked my brains for memories of Draco Malfoy from our school days and I've come up with only fragments of memories all blurred, like looking through greasy glass. He left Hogwarts when I was fifteen and the war against Voldemort reached its crescendo. I remember him from afar as a tall boy with white-blond hair who played Quidditch on the House team.

The weird thing that keeps coming to mind is Daphne once had a picture of his mum, Narcissa Malfoy, on her bedroom wall. It was a cut-out, probably from _Witch Weekly_, now I think of it.

Daphne had this wall collage crammed with famous people and postcards she liked and I loved looking at it. During term-time before I went to Hogwarts, when I was bored or lonely I'd go sit on her bed and look at it and enjoy everywhere smelling like Daphne's perfume.

In the photo Narcissa has long, straight hair like Rapunzel and a book open in her lap. The expression on her face was hard to read, sometimes I thought she looked sad and other times she seemed smug, as if she had a secret she wasn't going to tell me. I remember I liked her picture because she wasn't smiling. Everyone else had these big fake grins but Narcissa didn't, she was totally different and I admired that.

When Daphne told me that Narcissa Malfoy was the mum of a boy she went to school with I didn't believe her at first. Narcissa Malfoy didn't look like any of the mums I knew – especially mine. This all comes back to me in a rush as I push through the heavy iron and stained glass front doors of _The Heliotrope Hotel_.

The entrance hall is bright and airy and it smells faintly of the sea and hot house flowers. The floor is white marble and there's a huge domed skylight overhead like an observatory that's flooding the room with pale grey light. The walls are paneled in blond wood which reminds me of being on a boat and a sweeping staircase curves like a wave up and out of sight. My shoes click on the marble as I edge into the lobby. I'm more than a little intimidated by the beauty and grandeur of the place but I try not to let it show.

I've dressed smartly for today's meeting. I'm wearing a floor-length gown (some witches and wizards in places like this are still scandalized by the sight of a witch's ankles). It seemed way too formal to wear my hair up, so I've left it down and headband braided the front section. I spot the dinning room and head on through without bothering the receptionist, a wizard in pristine white robes and an ocean blue admiral's hat.

The dinning room is a sumptuous rectangular room with a panoramic view of the ocean. Today the sky and the sea look like badly washed laundry, discolored and sad. Inside, it's warm like a lazy summer afternoon and candles and lamps have been lit to dispel the gloom; the little balls of golden flame make the crystal chandeliers and silver accoutrements glitter and gleam. White roses and sweet smelling lilies populate tabletops and explode from blue Persian vases the size of small children.

It's easy to spot Draco Malfoy. He's sat front and center in the quiet dining room with his back to the ocean. He's long and lithe, slouched in his seat, fiddling moodily with a tea-strainer. The light catches his platinum hair and makes it gold like galleons. I don't need to get any closer to know that he's bored and hostile.

I smooth my hand reassuringly over the soft leather of my satchel. I've spent all morning refining my questions. I've read the small amount of information Bernice could gather about him and I feel about as prepared as it's possible to be when you're facing a mysterious wizard, but that doesn't stop a tide of anxiousness washing over me as I approach. I've never interviewed anyone before.

Malfoy looks up at me when I near the table and if looks could kill, I'd probably be a heap on the floor. A thrill goes through me like walking into an electric fence or catching a Banishing Spell.

His face is long and sharp; all of his features seem to have razor edges. I can imagine an architect drawing him, the lines of his jaw and cheekbones are so fine and precise. His eyes are light grey and fierce even though his body language is languid and careless. He reminds me of a startled arctic fox.

"I'm Astoria Greengrass," I tell him in a soft but firm voice, forcing myself to hold his gaze. "I'm from _Witch Weekly_."

I'm careful not to make any sudden movements as I hold out my hand to shake his. That steel gaze is still warily on me. It's like reaching out to pet a horse - I go slowly because I don't want to spook him.

The resulting handshake is firm and business-like. Malfoy's hand is cold and smooth and tells me he's never had to do a hard days work in his life. My dad taught me to always squeeze a little when shaking hands. Apparently it's a subtle sign that you don't take any crap.

As I take my seat I know that Malfoy's aware of this unspoken code.

"Greengrass?" he queries in a drawl that makes me think he's turning my name over in his mouth like a boiled sweet.

"I'm Daphne's sister, you were at sch-"

"I know who I was at school with."

Startled, I glance up from taking the parchment and brand new Quick Quotes Quill out of my bag. His smart foxy eyes are narrowed at me and I sense that he's weighing up if the Daphne connection is purely coincidence or if the magazine has sent me like some kind of Trojan Horse.

The other thing that I notice is entirely physical and completely unexpected. Draco Malfoy, with all of his point and pallor, is my idea of good-looking. Or, he would be if he wasn't glaring at me.

"She's doing okay – Daphne, I mean," I prattle, unable to hold up against his intensity. "She's, um, working as a, err, Astronomy Arithmancer at the Andromeda Institute – in case you were wondering."

I finish hunting around in my bag for the bit of parchment that's got my questions written on it and lay it on the table in front of me. My heart is racing and my nerves are making me breathless and jittery.

I am making such a mess of this, I think as I flatten the parchment just for something to do with my hands.

Malfoy doesn't respond, which forces me to look up.

He's leaning back, sipping his tea. One of his arms is draped casually over the round back of his chair like he's at home, not in some exclusive hotel. His body language and his attitude reek of entitlement. I squirm uncomfortably as I realize I'm so beneath his attention that I'm basically invisible to him. I feel simultaneously hurt and bloody minded. I want to show him I'm worth noticing.

"Have you already ordered?" I ask him with more force than I'd meant to.

I sound angry and that makes me angrier because what Draco Malfoy thinks of me really shouldn't matter so much.

"I wasn't going to eat anything but you go ahead," he says dismissively.

"We could share some chips," I suggest resentfully.

I'm starving and I can hear my mum's voice in my head telling me the best way to get even with a jerk is to kill them with kindness.

This seems to work because Draco Malfoy looks at me like a deer in headlights; for a second surprise flashes over his face and he doesn't know what to do. I find it sad that he doesn't know how to react to kindness. Eventually he gives a nonchalant shrug and I scrutinize the menu.

"Do whatever you like," he drawls, but I feel his eyes on me more interested than before. "I suppose _Witch Weekly_ give you an expenses allowance? If I were you I'd go to town, order lobster or caviar – the lobster here is very good."

I peep up from the menu and give him a weak, acknowledging smile. I've never eaten a lobster before in my life and I'm not about to do it for the first time in front of_ him_. Lobsters have always freaked me out a bit, they remind me of the Blast Ended Skrewts.

I look around and catch the eye of a waiter in blue and gold fez. I place my order and in seconds a glass of water and a plate of chips appear on the table out of nowhere.

"So, I have a few questions to ask you. Do you mind if I use a Quick Quotes Quill?"

"If you must." Draco eyes my brand new quill with distrust.

It's a brown and cream Honey Buzzard feather quill and I've been breaking it in all morning. I shyly suck the quill and put it to a blank piece of parchment where it hovers, ready to go.

"I'll, um, get started. So, the first question is: Did you plan on being a millionaire at 23?"

Having that list gives me something to look at and that anchors me, my confidence returns.

"Yes actually, I did," Draco says, watching the quill intently as it copies his words onto the page.

He pauses to see if the quill adds anything after it's quoted him directly but it doesn't.

"You have to plan if you want to be successful in anything, especially business."

I take a chip and give Malfoy an encouraging look. He takes one too but doesn't seem at all comfortable eating with his fingers. It probably isn't something he's familiar with. I bet he knows the difference between a table fork and a fish fork. I wonder if there's such thing as a chip fork, exclusively for the use of chip eating?

"What was your plan?" I ask, nibbling self consciously on a chip.

"It was a very simple one," he says, sitting forward and taking another chip. "Start saving early, invest, set goals, budget well."

"So you think anyone can become a millionaire?" I ask doubtfully.

"Of course not, but it's only because most people are morons," Malfoy says contemptuously. "Logically if you save a little every month and live long enough you'll get there eventually, but that's not what people want to do. They want to live it up while they can, so they don't save and they live beyond their means. Those sorts of people won't be millionaires or if they are they won't stay that way."

He looks unhappy as he says this and I wonder if he's speaking from an emotional perspective or if he just hates poor people.

"Not everyone has the luxury of saving money," I tell him sharply, surprised once again that he's managed to get beneath my skin. I suppose he did inadvertently call me a moron – which I'm not! "Some people have to live month by month from wage to wage. What do you suggest for those people?"

I'm thinking of myself as I point this out to him. My wages cover my rent and after paying my parents back for floating me for six months during my internship that leaves me hardly anything.

"The same thing. Look, it's not easy but it is simple, if that makes sense. If it was easy everyone would be a millionaire and there'd be nothing special about my finances."

"How did you get your financial start?" I ask pointedly, folding my arms across my chest. I've got him now.

Everyone knows the Malfoys have a vault loaded with gold. It's common knowledge. Not to mention their Manor house that's rumored to be packed to the rafters with antiques and heirlooms galore. People say You Know Who lived there for a time during the war so who knows what dark artifacts he left behind.

Even though Draco Malfoy's been in hiding for the last four years his parents definitely haven't. It took all of ten minutes this morning leafing through recent copies of _Witch Weekly_ to see that both of his parents aren't short on anything, except for subtlety. Narcissa Malfoy has recently given an exorbitant amount of money to a Unicorn Sanctuary and Lucius Malfoy was all over the society pages living it up.

"I invested 10 galleons my Grandfather gave me for Christmas when I was 11," Malfoy drawls.

There's a honey-like quality to the sound of his voice, I can almost see the words dripping off a spoon.

"Not everyone has rich Grandparents," I say and I know I'm pushing my luck even before he raises an eyebrow and gives me a quizzical look.

"Oh, come on! It was ten galleons," he says, pulling a face like ten galleons is no big deal. "I could've spent that money on some stupid toy that I wanted, or sweets or whatever, but I didn't. I invested it, and you know how much it'd made by the time I was 19?"

"How much?" I humor him, because I know it's going to be a lot and he seems proud to tell me. It's the first glimmer of emotion I've managed to get out of him.

"I'd made almost a thousand galleons, which is what I used to start my own business, which is how I started making the big money."

He allows himself a self-congratulatory smile and it brightens up his entire face. He has just one dimple and his mouth looks so soft and pretty all upturned and smug.

He catches me looking at him a moment too long and I panic and look away feeling all tingly and hot in the face. It takes me a second to read my next question.

"So, you first invested in the beauty potion boutique, _Selwyn's Salves_, and then went into growing and selling potion ingredients. What is it about that industry that you like so much?"

"It's a shrewd move," Malfoy says flippantly and takes another chip. "People are always going to need potions. It makes business sense."

"So there's no emotional or intellectual attachment, it's just all money to you?" I clarify because to me that doesn't entirely make sense.

"I suppose potions _are_ interesting if you like that sort of thing," Malfoy admits, but his tone implies he's not one of them. "I'm only interested in them for business purposes, as a means to an end."

I don't believe him. It's too cold, too clinical. If he wanted to make a quick million he could have gone into broom development, that's where the instant cash is. For some reason I don't push it.

I'm starting to worry this article isn't going to have enough of a personal angle, enough heart. What the _Witch Weekly_ readership really likes is a good sob story.

"How far would you say the war influenced your decision to distinguish yourself from the rest of your family?" I read off, and the second I've finished I know I've made a huge mistake.

The air seems to chill and Malfoy's mouth thins to a pale line.

"I don't talk about the war," he tells me shortly, bowing his head and inspecting his fingernails closely. "I told your boss or whoever it was who answered my owls that I don't talk about it."

He keeps on angrily looking down, picking and rubbing at invisible dirt on his lovely, long fingered hands. The tension in the air is almost audible as a background thrum.

I feel stupid for asking him. Now that I've done it I realize my error. I lost people in the war, some of our family friends died. Their daughter, Polly, was the same age as me. We used to make 'potions' out of garden plants when we were little. I know for sure that Malfoy's aunt and cousin died in battle.

"I'm sorry," I say quietly, and I am. "I didn't know."

"Yeah, well, you should have," he broods.

I feel like this interview has hit rock bottom. Last night I should have studied some of the articles Bernice gave me rather than sitting up with Xen and Pace when they got in from their party.

Malfoy glances up at me and I know I'm looking as wretched as I feel because he shifts uncomfortably and says, "What's next on your list?"

"Okay," I mumble, grateful that he hasn't just walked out on me and left me hanging. "There are just a couple left now."

Malfoy reaches over the table to pull my list of questions towards him at the same moment I push them towards him. Our fingers stroke together and it's like touching a live wire. My heart does a double beat in my chest.

For the briefest of seconds we lock eyes and participating in that look is the most intense thing that's ever happened to me.

When I look away there's that thrum again, only it's like a swarm of bees in my head. I'm still crackling with heat from his touch. It's working its way into every part of my body. My face gets hot and I shift in my seat.

"What do you like doing with all the gold you've earned? What are your hobbies?" Malfoy reads. "Your questions are a bit presumptuous, aren't they?"

There's a wry smile curling his lip. And is it me, or is there a little more color in his face too?

"The funny thing is people expect millionaires' lives to be all champagne and caviar, but for most of us it isn't," he tells me almost proudly. "My biggest hobby right now is micro-financing, which means I'm putting most of my money back into new businesses and helping them get off the ground."

"That sounds risky," I say finding my voice again. I pick up a chip but they've gone cold by now.

"They're informed risks," Malfoy tells me knowledgably. "I'm not the gambling type. What do you do in your spare time?"

"It doesn't matter about me." I shrug.

"No, please, I'm interested. What does Astoria Greengrass like to do at the weekend?"

He looks like he's genuinely interested and for some reason the thought of Draco Malfoy being interested in any part of me makes me shy. I shake my head and wave him off but he keeps on looking at me expectantly.

Anything I tell him will probably sound lame. I mean, micro-financing, as a hobby, _really_? That sounds so benevolent and smart next to anything I do.

"I like music and writing… obviously, I work for a magazine after all – but I'm working on a novel in my spare time. That's what I really want to do, eventually."

I don't know why I tell him all that. I guess I'm still smarting from the moron comment he made at the beginning of the interview. I want him to know I have a brain and ambitions too.

"What's it about?"

"It's complicated to explain." That's an excuse, I just don't want to talk about it. "I guess we're done here," I say taking a deep breath. "If you have any questions or anything about the article you can write to me at the office."

"Oh, alright. Is that all?" Malfoy sounds disappointed.

I look up from packing away my belongings. Something about him has changed, like the position of the sun changes the length of a shadow. He seems different to me in some indefinable way. His sharp, solemn face is the same but perhaps I see the person beneath the mask a little differently and somehow that makes all the difference.


	3. Chapter 3

**Title:** Dance with the Devil  
**Author Name:** Shy Unicorn  
**Rating:**M  
**Genre:** Romance/Friendship  
**Main Character(s):** Astoria Greengrass and Draco Malfoy  
**Ship(s):** Astoria/Draco, Lucius/Narcissa, Narcissa/OC, Lucius/OC  
**Summary:** Four years after Voldemort is vanquished Astoria Greengrass starts working for 'Witch Weekly' magazine as a feature writer. Her very first job is to interview Draco Malfoy who has just made his first million galleons without the aid of his rich parents. What happens when they meet?  
**Author's Note (A/N):**Here's the first of many M rated parts of this story. Hugs not drugs people, hugs not drugs.

**Dance with the Devil**

**Chapter Three: Sneezewort Epiphany **

Bernice wasn't kidding when she said she was going to keep me busy. Besides the Malfoy piece she handed me another interview, two features, a huge list of articles to plan and prep for the rest of the Quarter (research, make notes on, set up meetings for). Not to mention articles she's clipped for me to read, review and take style tips from. Every newspaper and magazine has its own 'in-house style' which is their own way of doing things from referencing to buzz words and if I want to get published I have to learn the lingo.

I'm so relieved when Friday night comes around. I feel like it's the first time I've had more than a moment to myself since starting at the magazine on Monday morning. I turned my Malfoy interview in earlier that afternoon when Bernice was happy with it. To celebrate my first week and to have fun Xenia, Pace and I decide to head out to a rave we know is happening out on the McLaggen property.

As I walk up the worn dirt path to a barn in the fading light I think of the article waiting to go to the printer's, ready for publication on Sunday morning. Excitement is fizzing inside of me like a soda pop. I would feel completely jubilant if it weren't for the scorching memory of Draco Malfoy lurking in the recesses of my brain. I hope he'll be happy with it.

The air is cool and smells fresh and sweet. There's no civilization for miles around, just green fields, lollipop trees and a big watermelon slice of sky. Even from a good way off I can hear the infectious beat of a dance song emanating from the barn at the top of the hill. I really want to kick back and dance.

Xenia has her arms around me and Pace; the two of them are arguing about whether to snort the sneezewort we've brought with us now or save it for later on.

"Xen, you drank a bottle of wine while we were getting ready. Let's save it until that buzz has won off," Pace says reasonably.

"Yeah, but if we do it later than we'll have to share it with whoever's around," Xenia wheedles. "You know how much of a raccoon Vaisey can be."

"I don't see why we all have to do it at the same time," I say, trying to be the diplomatic one amongst us.

This gets shot down by a frown and a shake of Xenia's head.

"It isn't the same when you do it alone. Taking stuff on your own is like drinking on your own, it's deeply tragic and weird. C'mon, Pace, please let's do it now."

"You are such a junkie," Pace capitulates and Xenia kisses his cheek.

"It'll get the night off to a perfect start," she says, still in full-on persuasive mode. "It'll take the edge off everything. We'll dance, we'll drink, we'll have a good time. It'll be the perfect end to the summer."

Birds chirp and a breeze ruffles the trees as we stop and crowd around Pace, who takes out a small pouch of grayish-green powder. We all take a pinch.

"To life," I say.

"To love," says Xenia.

"To the jam," says Pace.

This is how we've started all of our nights this summer, toasting with either a drink or a pinch of sneezewort. So far it's been the best summer of my life. I've had more fun than I thought it was possible to have in an entire lifetime. Tonight is the last time we'll be doing anything like this in a while because we're all deeply committed to knuckling down and making it big in our careers.

I sneeze hard a couple of times, my eyes streaming and my nose running. I do what Xenia calls 'Snow White Sneezes' these little, squeaky delicate sounds. Xenia booms like she's firing a canon and Pace does a couple in quick succession and manages to sound melodic. We all laugh at the absurd faces we pull and stumble up the hill feeling like the night is our oyster and something incredible is about to happen.

There are lots of people in the barn already milling around, meeting up with their friends and drinking beers. There's hay on the floor and everywhere smells like cow manure. A wizard with electric blue hair is on a podium, bent over like a master potioneer stirring several vinyl records at one time. The sound is…unique. Overhead there are a handful of orbs, like little moons casting light over everything.

I can get socially anxious, especially in big crowds but the sneezewort helps take the edge off. I look around and check out who's there and do this annoying thing where I start comparing myself to everyone to see if I'm as cool as them – I'm not.

The underground trend right now is for wizards to wear blue jeans and an Asian influenced kimono, in-keeping with the fetish for anything Muggle. Pace has this look down to an art. He's spiked his fohawk up and I can see girls turning to check him out as we pass. Xenia and I are both wearing denim shorts, which are considered very scandalous by my parents because, you know, you can see my legs. The Wizarding world is progressive in lots of areas but showing some flesh really isn't one of them. I feel very self conscious in my tiny shorts (as well as cold) but I try to ignore that because they make me look cool and edgy.

Very soon we run into Xenia's boyfriend, Marcus Belby and his friends. Xenia launches herself at him and gives him a full-body hug and they start making out enthusiastically. It is beyond disgusting.

"Get a room!" Anthony Goldstein calls to them and there's a titter of agreeing laughter from the rest of us who congregate together. Marcus gives Tony a rude hand-gesture and keeps sucking face with Xenia.

Marcus and Tony are there with their friends Su, Vaisey and Zach Smith. There's a moment where I high-five Tony and hug Su in welcome. As I step away Zach gives me a cool head-nod of acknowledgement. The two of us have had this skinny love thing going on all summer. We'll dance and we'll kiss but we can't find more than three words to say to each other. That is the entire history of my love life.

"Want a drink?" Zach asks me above the music, which is creeping louder.

"Sure."

Together we push through the crowd. At the back of the barn is a pile of beer crates, a table with several bottles of Firewhisky on it, beneath that a cooler of butterbeer. There's a box of kazoos and glow-in-the-dark wrist bands for some gloriously bizarre reason. I take a couple of neon green wristbands as Zach collects a bottle of beer for him and a butterbeer for me. I don't like getting drunk at raves so I always stick to the soft stuff.

"So…how's it going?" he asks me.

"Good," I reply, uncapping my drink. "You?"

"Yeah, it's good."

We sip our drinks in easy silence. Zach reaches out and twines his fingers through my free hand. I notice it doesn't feel as good as when Draco Malfoy touched me.

I can feel the sneezewort working its magic anesthetic through my nerves. I'm starting to feel relaxed and floppy like a noodle.

A new DJ has started his set and I feel the music pushing against me like the surging crowd of people.

"Want to dance?"

Zach gives me a lop-sided smile that used to make my tummy roll over. Tonight I think he looks scruffy and immature. His shyness that I used to find so endearing is getting on my nerves. As I shove my way into the middle of the dance floor I wish he'd just take control of the situation. It's clear to everyone and to us that we've liked each other all summer. What's he waiting for?

I don't have much more time to be cranky because I get that tickly sensation in the back of my nose like I'm about to sneeze. For a moment I think I'm really going to but it passes and I am now experiencing full-blown sneezewort euphoria.

The music is this big ocean of noise all around me and I'm a boat bobbing on the waves. I find myself laughing. Everything around me looks the same – we're definitely still in a beat-up cow shed but I _feel_ like I'm a boat being rocked by music waves and that's what matters most. I begin to dance and the sensation of moving in time to the beat is like floating away on a tide of bliss. I see palm trees and exotic islands in my mind's eye.

I can feel Zach close by as we dance but half of the time my eyes are shut as I let the tide of music rock me. I wonder fleetingly what Draco Malfoy is doing right at this second. Is micro-financing taking up his Friday night? I imagine him planting money trees under the light of the full moon and I find that I'm laughing out loud again. I am properly crushing on him, I admit to myself, which is weird because I didn't learn all that much about him personally during our time together.

A song that's been our anthem all summer comes on and that pops my daydream like a soap bubble. Xenia is diving through the crowd, her curly hair is crazy in the humidity. We hug tightly screaming in unison, "I love this song!"

We hop on the spot as Pace materializes with the others. He throws his arm over my shoulder, pulling me into a tight friendship circle. Marcus, sweaty and scrawny, wedges up against me on my left side. We all jump up and down and shout along for the duration of the song. Xenia's laughing face sticks in my mind and I feel like the universe is hugging me.

After that song the world flips into fast-forward for me. We dance and dance and dance.

I get sweaty, my hair sticks to my face and the back of my neck but I don't care. I am a boat after all. Boats are supposed to be wet if they're doing things right.

The stink of hay and sweat and beer rises with the temperature. I can see the humidity in the air along with neon streaks of pink, violet and green from those silly neon wristbands that everyone seems to be wearing. I get buffeted and tossed by people dancing next to me. When I get hit in the back by a guy's elbow it doesn't hurt me exactly, the pain feels blunted and I find myself laughing and telling him it's fine as he apologizes profusely.

The world spins faster and faster as the night progresses until I'm very dizzy. I stop dancing and stand still and feel the world swaying like a spinning top beneath my feet. I throw my hands out to keep my balance and I look like I'm surfing on dry land. The wall of noise pushes down on me and I feel the urge to lie down. I tug Xenia away from dancing and making out with Marcus.

The two of us stumble out into the cold night air. It's completely dark outside. So dark in fact we can see stars up above like glitter on black paper. I think fondly of my older sister Daphne, who studies stars so closely for a living, as Xenia and I flump down onto the dry grass.

Xenia trips over her own feet and falls flat on her face. We both howl with laughter. I roll onto my back and throw my arms and legs out like a starfish. We're both breathless and smiling like dopes.

"Having a good time?" she asks me, raising her head. There's dried grass suspended in her frizzy brown hair.

"Uh-huh. I just need some air for a minute."

"Yeah, me too," Xenia pants.

I un-tuck my blouse and give it a wave trying to create a breeze that will cool me down. Xenia is half passed out, face down in the grass beside me.

The cool and quiet of the night is lovely. I lie back and admire the velveteen blue of the sky overhead. The trees whisper and rush in the dark. I feel like the universe has me cradled in the palm of her hand as I look up at the constellations. I can see the heavens doming out like a snow-globe.

For a very long time Xenia and I don't speak.

"Hey! Your magazine will be going to print right this second!" Xenia exclaims. "Isn't that cool? You're going to be a real published writer. You're a fancy big shot now."

I laugh. The world has stopped spinning and I feel replete.

"It's so crazy to me that it's actually happening," I admit. "I've dreamed about being published for so long."

"You never did tell me how your interview went. Was the young master Malfoy as kooky as we thought?" There's a mocking little smirk on her grass speckled face.

"I don't know…" I say awkwardly. "He was kind of…cold."

We both laugh because 'cold' sounds like a strange way to describe a person. It isn't an adjective we'd use to describe anyone we know.

"Cold would be good right now," Xenia mutters. "I really want an iced-lolly… or a bath of ice-cubes – or ice-cream! God, I would kill from some chocolate ice-cream right now."

I don't reply.

Right over head I've found the tail of the constellation Draco. I squint and join the dots with my finger. They form a jagged ring around the north pole, slithering like a starry snake through the night. As I'm lying there looking up at a bunch of stars millions of light years away I think of Draco Malfoy and he feels so close, it's like he's in my chest. I rub the place where my heart is. It's only when I catch Xenia's eye I realize I'm grinning from ear to ear.

"_You liiiiiiike him!" _Xenia teases me in a sing-song voice, her smile growing as broad as mine.

"No I don't!"

I strike out and hit her playfully on the shoulder. She feigns pain and rolls away from me laughing. It's blatantly a lie because my cheeks are burning and I'm giggling like I'm 12 again.

"Oh my God, you _do_ like him!" Xenia pushes up from the ground. "That's so cool! You know, Astoria, Pace and I were starting to wonder if you 'beat for the Harpies.'"

"Xen!" I gasp. "I'm not gay. I'd have told you by now if I was. I hate that phrase. The Holyhead Harpies are cool and hardly any of them are actually lesbians! I'm just picky about boys, besides I don't fancy Malfoy. I don't even know him. The whole interview was weird."

"Weird how?" Xenia asks me seriously, but then adds. "Did you have sexy feelings for Draco Malfoy? Is that why it was weird? Did you want to jump his bones?"

"You're such a perv," I laugh, shaking my head in an imitation of disdain. "It was just weird. I mean, we were eating chips in the grandest hotel in the world – who does that? And I'd never interviewed anyone before - and he was totally gorgeous and intimidating, by the way - while I was a nervous wreck making him answer all these personal questions about his money! It was bizarre."

"God, Astoria, you're such a gold-digger," Xenia teases me.

I give her a sideways look and raise one of my eyebrows at her. We both know I'm _really_ not. She tears up a handful of grass and throws it at me. I crinkle my nose and bat it away.

Xenia turns her big, dark eyes on me.

"How did it end? I mean, did he seem interested in you at all?" she asks me seriously.

I can't believe we're having this conversation. The fact that it's on a patch of grass outside a rave just makes it that little bit more surreal.

"I don't know," I tell her honestly.

There's a sinking feeling in my stomach like a punctured balloon, all the hilarity has seeped out of the conversation. It seems premature and dumb. I don't think he especially liked me but I do think in some strange way he was happy to have someone to talk to.

"I kind of shut him down at the end," I admit.

"ASTORIA!"

"I didn't know what to say!" I protest. "I was there because of my job - I do have to work you know. I couldn't sit there all day with him talking about the weather, could I? It wasn't a date. Besides, I'm sure he had some other important place to be."

"Are you going to get a chance to see him again?"

I give her a reproachful look.

"Even if I do see him again he's mister money-bags-foaming-at-the-mouth-pureblood-aristocracy. I doubt he'd be interested in _me._"

"But you're, like, such a babe," Xenia says at once. I roll my eyes. "Seriously, I don't get why you're so hard on yourself."

I sigh heavily and lie back down.

"You try having Daphne as your brilliant older sister, then you'd see. She's smart and pretty and cool. Not to mention she does everything first, so when I do it it's no big deal."

"What about your writing?"

"My parents support me, but I know they wish I'd do something more academic," I look over at my best friend sadly. "Writing's all I've ever wanted to do but they think I'm wasting my talent working for _Witch Weekly_. Mum thinks the whole magazine's a joke and I just know that Dad wishes I'd gone into Charms like him."

"Astoria, that's just not true," Xenia says quietly, wiggling over to me like a caterpillar and hugging me.

She smells like lavender and beer. The combination is oddly soothing, coupled with her tight embrace. I notice the sneezewort has worn off now.

"We'll show them. You'll become a famous writer and I'll become a world-renowned diplomat and International law writer. We'll buy all our clothes from Twilfitt & Tatting's and wherever we go people will say 'Oh, look, there go Xenia Papadopoulou and Astoria Greengrass, aren't they fucking awesome?'"

I laugh in spite of myself.

"You're right," I say, resting my head on Xenia's. "We_ are_ fucking cool."

"That's the spirit!" Xenia says clambering to her feet. She gives me a hand to help me up.

We're wiping the dried grass off our clothes when Pace meanders out of the barn, smiling but disheveled.

"Having a heart to heart beneath the stars, are we, ladies?" he says, coming to stand with us.

"Just having a lie down," I tell him, slipping my arm around his waist. He's hot and clammy. "Been having fun?"

"Yeah, the party's almost broken up now. McLaggen is swaggering around telling anyone who'll listen that he's the 'Minister of Mayhem'."

"I guess that's what happens when you combine hardcore drugs and home brew," Xenia remarks. "I should probably go and find Marcus. I said I'd go back to his place tonight, so you don't have to wait around for me if you want to leave soon."

"Thanks for tonight," I say quietly, quickly catching her hand and giving it an affectionate squeeze as she goes.

"No problems," Xenia smiles equally fondly before skipping off.

"Do you want to go back and dance?" I ask Pace.

"I'm not bothered. We can if you want," he shrugs and takes a deep drink from the bottle of butterbeer he's holding.

"Nah, I'm not bothered either if the night's winding down."

"Can you Apparate okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine now. Why?"

I can see by the sly way he's looking at me that he's got a plan.

"Well, I was just thinking, it's 3am on a Saturday morning… and where do we usually end up at that time and place?"

We both grin as our minds make the same leap.

"Do you fancy a foray into the muggle world, per chance?" I ask in my most mysterious tones, which makes me sound a little like Headmaster Dumbledore.

"Why yes, I think I do," Pace imitates.

Together we race down the hill, leaping and whooping, to the spot where we can decently Disapparate.

Our destination is a little steamy muggle café off Brick Lane in London.

At 3am on a Saturday it's packed with muggle men in work overalls and muggle kids about our age. We all sit in the plastic booths and stare at each other's weird clothing, while we all enjoy eating the best bagels in the whole of England.

It's the perfect end to the night.

When I finally fall into bed the sheets are crisp and cool. My ears are ringing so hard it sounds like the silence is white noise. I think of my article that's being printed somewhere in the world and of Draco Malfoy, who is probably sound asleep. I pack my duvet around me and nestle down into my pillow.

I recall that one accidental touch and the infinite look that followed. I conjure up the rigid lines of his face, his cunning silver eyes which contrast with his lovely soft lips and hands. I wonder why he's so intensely private and if it's true that You Know Who lived in his house and what that must have been like for him and his family. I wonder about Narcissa Malfoy's sad eyes and Lucius Malfoy's ostentatiousness and how that's shaped the young man I had lunch with.


	4. Chapter 4

**Title:** Dance with the Devil  
**Author Name:** Shy Unicorn  
**Rating:**M  
**Genre:** Romance/Friendship  
**Main Character(s):** Astoria Greengrass and Draco Malfoy  
**Ship(s):** Astoria/Draco, Lucius/Narcissa, Narcissa/OC, Lucius/OC  
**Summary:** Four years after Voldemort is vanquished Astoria Greengrass starts working for 'Witch Weekly' magazine as a feature writer. Her very first job is to interview Draco Malfoy who has just made his first million galleons without the aid of his rich parents. What happens when they meet?  
**Author's Note (A/N):**Things are starting to get murkier and murkier for Astoria. What else did you expect from me?

**Dance with the Devil**

**Chapter Four: Pansy's Warning**

I was keen to get to work on Monday morning. I'd spent the previous night puzzling over the events section of the magazine. It was seriously neglected and I had some ideas about how it could be improved. Bernice had encouraged me to find opportunities to write and I thought this was a simple one that I could easily fix.

"It certainly has been neglected," Bernice agreed, when I pitched her my idea over our morning cup of tea.

"I was thinking that we could re-brand it as 'High Lives/Low Lives.' The magazine covers a lot of high culture stuff like ballet, opera and exclusive parties but not many gigs or out of the way restaurants where most of the readership actually spends time."

"I see your point, but the magazine is aspirational. That's why we cover what we do and it sells copies just fine."

"I know and that's why I'd keep covering the high end stuff," I placate, but continue to push my idea. "I just wondered how many Hogwarts aged girls subscribe to the magazine these days or young professionals? I mean, if we're looking at an aging readership then maybe the events section is a small way to get new readers."

Bernice purses her lips and looks down at my sketch of how the page would look if we re-vamped it. She absently twiddles her quill as she mulls over my proposal.

"I'm not sure, Astoria," she says at last.

Bernice looks at me over the top of her glasses and my disappointment is obvious to her because she gives me a sympathetic smile. She shuffles her papers and says in a gentle tone, "I admire your enthusiasm. How about you do a mock up for me this week? Talk to Raj, our printer about the page design, cover some events for me. Give me a real taste of what you'd like to do and we can talk about it again next week."

"Thanks. I'll do that," I say grinning appreciatively.

"You know, Pansy is helping with the private viewing Madam Malkin is having tonight. She might like an extra pair of hands if you'd be interested in putting in some extra time?"

"That sounds perfect," I say at once without thinking things through at all.

"Brill. Now, let's get down to business. How are your features coming along?"

I take a breath and pull out my drafts for her to look over.

The morning slowly gets into motion. After the morning meeting I settle down to work. I write a list of things I have to get done in order of importance. My desk crowds up with old volumes of _Witch Weekly,_ resource books, letters, amended drafts of my work and empty cups of tea.

I like the background noise of my colleagues. The scratching of quills, the chatter, the sound of the radio, the jokes and surprises – a delivery of sample beauty products from _Selwyn's Salves_ causes much oohing and ahhing. Mostly I'm bent over my parchment working hard with ink and quill, maneuvering words into position.

At lunchtime Pansy comes past my desk, heading out to pick up something to eat and I stop her to ask about helping out tonight.

"I suppose it wouldn't be a huge inconvenience," she says somewhat grudgingly. "Do you even know what's happening?"

"Bernice told me it's some kind of fashion thing."

"_Fashion thing!?"_ Pansy shrieks looking deeply offended. "Come with me. If you're going to come tonight I'm going to need to educate you and I really don't have the time."

She sticks her snub nose in the air and walks purposefully towards the doors. I have to leap up in order to follow her.

"Tonight's viewing is for fashion's most important people," Pansy tells me sternly as we make our way out to Diagon Alley. "Every September and March all the robes designers hold parties showcasing their newest patterns and designs. It's a very big deal. Ottoline Higgs goes to the parties and she decides what the tone will be for the entire fashion calendar."

"Ottoline Higgs is going to be there tonight?" A thrill of terror goes through me.

"Yes, she is," Pansy snaps. "So you'll wear the most fashionable dress robes you own and you'll be at Madam Malkin's shop at 6.30 sharp. Fabiola will be there helping the caterers set up. You can help her hand out gift bags on the door. _I_ will be Ottoline's assistant. You will not speak to Ottoline or anyone there unless you are spoken to first, is that understood?"

"That's completely fine with me," I say hastily.

I don't have any plans on spending any more time with Ottoline Higgs than I have to. She gives me the creeps. If someone told me she was a vampire and ate babies for breakfast I wouldn't be surprised.

Since my first day I haven't seen her at all. She mostly writes in to the magazine several times a day. I know this because she uses pale lilac stationary with a blush pink wax seal which stands out next to the regular parchment letters we get. Apparently she comes in a couple of times a month to oversee our work but most things get ferried out to her country house by Mafalda Vane, a witch in a constant state of anxiety, who I think is Ottoline's personal assistant.

"We have an understanding then," Pansy says.

As she pushes into the café which was once Florean Fortescue's Ice-Cream Parlor her hard eyes flick over me from head to toe and she adds, "Don't you dare up-stage me, Astoria. I'm doing you a favor, remember?"

She lets the door swing shut in my face and leaves me standing outside on the pavement. I don't know if I've been insulted or given a back-handed compliment.

"Thank you, Pansy. You are _so_ gracious," I mutter sarcastically and head back to the office.

I return to Diagon Alley at 6.30pm sharp just as Pansy demanded. I'm wearing my favorite dark purple dress robes and a dainty silver tiara because I finally have an event smart enough to justify wearing it.

Madam Malkin's shop has been completely transformed and it's breathtaking. I stand in the doorway blinking for a few moments, my mouth hanging open. The little shop has been magically extended somehow. It now looks like a beautiful, romantic grotto.

Devil's Snare, which resembles ivy, has been allowed to grow wild against one wall to provide a back-drop for a series of beautiful gowns that shine like beetles eyes. The usual racks of clothes have been moved aside to make way for a handful of magnificent silk upholstered seats artistically arranged in the center of the room. Cranberry scented candles cluster around miniature trees with bare branches. Robins flit overhead or hop from tree to tree. I smell hot apple cider and see a vat of it on the counter, steaming slightly. On small, low tables Fabiola is laying out bite-sized pumpkin and pecan pies.

"Is there anything I can help with?" I ask her.

"Oh, Astoria!" she sighs in relief. "If you could put together that last couple of gift bags that would be amazing."

I get to work filling velvet tote bags with free gifts. The stuff that's being given away for free makes me green with envy! There's water-repelling woolen mittens, jewelry by _Yaxley'_s, perfumes, potions, chocolate from _Honeyduke's_ and gift certificates for _Madam Malkin's_ totaling 100 galleons. The most ridiculous thing about giving out all this expensive free stuff is the witches and wizards who are going to get it are more than capable of paying for it themselves.

To get the last couple of gift bags finished in time for the 7pm opening Fabiola comes over and helps me.

"Did you do all of this?" I ask her, looking around once more in disbelief.

"Most of it, yeah," Fabiola admits modestly. "Mafalda Vane gave me and Pansy the design plan but all the spellwork is mine."

I am deeply impressed by her spellcraft. She also looks phenomenal in bright yellow robes which contrast dramatically with her dark skin. The coolest part of her outfit is her hat. It's shaped out of cloth and is so complicatedly constructed it reminds me of origami.

"This place looks incredible and you do too," I compliment her. "Where are Pansy and that Vane woman?"

"I don't know about Pansy but Mafalda got called away to a last minute emergency. Something to do with a carriage not being gold enough."

Fabiola and I exchange significant looks. Who in their right mind complains that a carriage isn't gold enough? Who even has carriages anymore!?

At seven o'clock I get my answer as people start arriving and carriages block up the narrow cobbled street outside. Fabiola and I stand either side of the door inside the shop and hand out gift bags.

The shop/grotto begins to fill with the wealthiest collection of witches and wizards I've ever seen in one place. One wizard comes in wearing robes made entirely out of alligator skin, another with a white mink cloak and jewels the size of eggs. The witches are all crazy skinny and wear glossy pointed hats and diamonds. They look peculiarly ageless as they gossip like Hogwarts students as they crowd around Madam Malkin and her creations.

I see an ornate ebony carriage pull up outside the shop just as the rush is subsiding and watch as two people with white-blond hair step out.

My heart leaps painfully into my throat as I recognize the tall, slender figure of Draco Malfoy. He looks more chic and well-dressed than the last time I saw him – which I didn't think was possible. The woman he's with has a distinctive sheet of platinum hair, and even though she's older than she was in the photograph it's unmistakably Narcissa Malfoy.

I don't have time to get self-conscious and wonder how to act because right behind them is Ottoline Higgs, who looks flawless and merciless like a warrior queen. She's flanked by Mafalda Vane and Pansy Parkinson who couldn't possibly look any more self-satisfied if she tried.

Ottoline strides towards the shop door as if she's facing her destiny. There's an awkward moment as her and her entourage encounter the Malfoys. For the briefest of seconds Ottoline and Narcissa stare each other down to see who gets to enter first. With a vicious toothy smile Ottoline steps back a fraction and the Malfoys cross the threshold.

Narcissa's face is a mask of cold indifference as she sweeps in and collects her gift from Fabiola. Draco on the other hand casts a hateful look at the other witch and I wonder what she did to deserve his displeasure.

My curiosity is still piqued when he notices me. Recognition dashes over his angular face and I just have time to smile shyly before Ottoline Higgs blocks my view of him.

I want to say it's the icy chill from the open door that prickles my skin but I know that's only half true. Ottoline holds out her thin, claw-like hand expectantly and I rush to fill it with swag. She barely looks at me but for some reason I feel like I've been turned to stone by Medusa.

As Pansy passes me she's not gloating as much as I would have expected. I catch her looking warily at Draco Malfoy and something stirs in my memory. I can foggily recall Daphne at fourteen being jealous that Pansy had a boyfriend and she didn't. I join two and two together and figure that boy was probably Draco Malfoy.

Ottoline Higgs sits down front and center like a queen opening court. Pansy and Mafalda settle either side of her. Other guests follow their lead and take their seats. Fabiola and I hang back, slouching against the back wall where we have a good view of everyone. Apart from Higgs, the Malfoys and the famous photographer Adrian Leon Tallis I don't recognize anyone. Fabiola brings me up to speed. She seems to know everyone.

"That's Dora Yaxley, the jeweler. Then, next to her is Barnabus Blishwick, the industrialist. Herbert Fleet is Malkin's pattern designer, and with him is Tamsin Applebee she's the journeyman tailor here at Malkin's– she's really one to watch. Her shoulder and sleeve designs are amazing. Indira Choudry the famous beater…"

Fabiola goes on and on. I try to remember as many names as I possibly can but it's hard to keep track. Draco Malfoy keeps glancing in our direction, which I find very distracting.

Madam Malkin and a model in a shimmering set of robes the kaleidoscopic color of a petrol spill are the center of everyone's attention. Malkin, a squat, friendly witch approaching late middle age is animated and entertaining as she talks her captive audience through the nuances of her designs. Fabiola is attentively taking notes with a self-inking quill.

It is sort of interesting to hear the inspiration behind the collection and a little of how the clothes are made and where the materials are sourced from. I like clothes as much as the next girl but I didn't realize that so many people and industries went into one garment.

I look at the back of Draco Malfoy's sleek head and wonder if his job of coordinating potions ingredients and businesses is similar to what Malkin is describing. It sounds very time consuming trying to get everyone to come together. It also sounds like you have to be single-minded, a little controlling even. I can easily see that being true about him. He's very self-contained, even now when he's sat beside his mother.

He shifts in his seat and cranes his neck around further than before. He catches my eye. He doesn't acknowledge me in any way but I know that he was looking for me. He thinks I can't see the secretive smile that quirks his mouth when he's facing forward again, but from this angle I see it perfectly.

The fact that he was just checking around for me makes my heart bob like a cork with renewed hope. Of what, I'm not exactly sure. I think it proves that my interview with him wasn't a total disaster though it definitely wasn't my finest achievement.

When Madam Malkin finishes her talk she invites everyone to eat, drink and get a closer look at all her designs. The night shifts into a kind of drinks soiree where all the guests mingle and rub wands with one another. It's like some exclusive club or fabulous clique of friends.

Fabiola leaves me under the pretence of manning the apple cider cauldron but I know it's because Tamsin Applebee, her idol, has just gone that way. I don't mind being ditched. I'd do the same thing if it was someone I was really into. The thing with being a gigantic literature nerd is most of your heroes are either fictional or dead.

I look around to see who's schmoozing who when I catch Draco Malfoy coming my way. He's holding two glasses of apple cider and looks good enough to eat. My stomach does an actual somersault in my belly. That's never happened to me over a guy before.

"Fancy seeing you here," he says smoothly, holding out one of the glasses for me to take.

Technically I'm not breaking any of Pansy's rules because he approached me, so I accept the drink and murmur, "I was about to say the same thing to you."

"I'm here accompanying my mother, what's your excuse?"

I know he's joking about me needing an excuse but he's looking at me so seriously I feel a bit like he's caught me spying on him. His eyes are so silvery-grey I'd forgotten they were so piercing.

We're standing close together and I can feel an unusual stand-offish vibe radiating from him. It's not directed at me specifically, more like the entire world telling them to keep a distance. It makes me wonder what would happen if I touched him. Would he flip out or combust or something?

"I'm working, but it's nice that you came with your mum."

"Really?"

"Yeah," I say, although I find myself hoping he's not a mummy's boy. They're always weirdos.

He looks at me intently for a long moment. I watch his intelligent eyes whisper over every feature of my face. It makes me self conscious. I wonder if I've got something on my face. I scout around for any robins that might have had a chance to crap on me.

"Look, I'm glad you're here," Draco says taking half a step closer, his honey voice melting my insides with every word. "I want to talk to you about the article."

"Didn't you like it?" I blurt, dismayed.

"I did like it," he assures me. "That's why I wanted to talk to you. I want to take you out for a proper lunch. I was going to come by the office tomorrow but as you're here now."

I look up at him trying not to gawp like an idiot. I can't believe what he's just said. Is he – is he asking me out on a date - a proper old-fashioned date?

"As long as we don't go back to the Heliotrope Hotel," I say ruefully when I manage to find my voice.

"I was thinking somewhere like Madam Puddifoot's in Hogsmeade."

I know what taking someone to Madam Puddifoot's meant back at Hogwarts but I'm not sure it means the same thing once you graduate. I look at him for clues of his intent but he's looking at me again in that way of his that makes me self-conscious.

My mouth is bone dry and my voice has deserted me so I have to nod my consent.

"How's micro-financing?" I ask after digging in my brain for something to say.

"It's going extraordinarily well, thanks. How's the novel?"

"A little neglected. I don't think its feelings are too badly hurt though," I joke, deeply pleased that he's remembered my throwaway comment about my writing.

"You never did tell me what it's about."

He takes a sip of his drink, all the while keeping his eyes trained on me. The effect is mesmerizing.

"Do you - err - read much fiction?" I falter.

"Doesn't everyone with half a brain? If you have any good recommendations I'd be happy to hear them - unless they're sappy romance novels. I once had a girlfriend who didn't read anything else, but I don't think she had two brain cells to rub together."

I choke out an unexpected laugh. I can't believe he's just been so casually cruel!

Before I can stop myself I inadvertently scan the room for Pansy, even though I'm not sure he's talking about her.

"I prefer white-knuckle-bawl-your-eyes-out drama, the kind that makes you see the world differently," I assure Draco.

"And that's the sort of thing you're writing?"

"I'm trying to," I say, thinking of the mountain of work I have to do for the magazine and how I've ended up at this event rather than holed up in my bedroom writing.

There's a momentary pause and I realize we've run out of safe topics of conversation.

"Is fashion something you're interested in?" I venture.

"God no, I've been bored to tears," he crows and I laugh, amused by his candor and his audacity to admit it right here with Madam Malkin just feet away!

"Why are you here then?" I ask him, still open mouthed and smiling.

For a beat he seems disarmed by my smile. I realize that we've been chatting for a while now and I've actually been enjoying his company. I think he has a similar thought, so I'm a bit put-out when he seems to shut down on me.

"My mother… and self-flagellation."

There's a hint of some dark turbulent emotion underscoring his words and I can't bring myself to believe he's joking or being dramatic just for the sake of it.

"Why would you do that?"

He looks away and becomes evasive. I notice he rubs at the back his hand before slipping it into the pocket of his robes.

"How did you get stuck here?" he deflects.

"I wanted more opportunities to write," I say uncertainly, trying to work out where the conversation went amiss.

"Draco? Who is this?" a cold, clear voice asks.

Draco and I turn in unison.

Narcissa Malfoy is giving Draco a look that I can't fathom. She has this spectacular haughty beauty, the kind that demands to be worshipped and makes you question your entire existence just by being in its presence. She too gives off that quiet, cold energy that makes me keep my distance.

"Astoria, meet my mother, Narcissa Malfoy. Mother, this is Astoria Greengrass," Draco says stiffly, formally introducing us.

"Pleased to meet you," I say politely.

It's incredibly strange seeing her in person after all these years of knowing her from one picture. She's much more angular in person. Her nose is sharp and primly pointed in a way that's reminiscent of Draco's. When we shake hands she's glacially cold and the fine bones of her fingers feel as delicate as bird bones in my palm.

"Greengrass?" she muses and I notice her thaw a little. I catch the look in her eye and I know from that look and her tone she knows I'm a pureblood.

"You're the girl that interviewed Draco for _Witch Weekly_," she says shrewdly.

"That's right."

"It was very brief," Narcissa says accusingly, then adds, "but I appreciated that it wasn't florid. I do so hate it when interviewers ramble on and can't come to the point."

"I agree," I say and look to Draco for some kind of reassurance.

"How's your mother? Is she still doing research into brain abnormalities?" Narcissa persists.

"Yes, yes she is," I say rather stunned that she knows who my mum is and what she does.

"Good," she says faintly.

She looks at me objectively, like I'm one of the gowns on display. I can see her making all kinds of assumptions about me, filing them away into her neatly compartmentalized mind.

"Mother, Astoria's working," Draco says quietly, touching her arm gently. "We shouldn't distract her any longer. What was it you wanted me for?"

"I wondered if you and Barny Blishwick had spoken yet," Narcissa says, tearing her eyes away from me. "I thought the two of you would have a lot to say to one another."

The moment she's stopped looking at me I feel as if I stop existing, like I become as transparent as a ghost.

Draco gives me a lingering look as he leads Narcissa away. I watch mother and son part the crowd and puzzle over the kind of relationship they must have. After all these years of liking Narcissa Malfoy from afar I don't quite know how to feel now I've actually met her in person.

"I couldn't help noticing you and Draco had quite a lot to say to each other," Pansy Parkinson says territorially while sidling up to me.

"I interviewed him for the magazine last week," I say quickly, feeling like I have to justify myself to her to avoid some kind of conflict. "We were just talking about that."

Pansy sees straight through my half-truth and I wonder why I even bothered. She scowls at the Malfoys and pulls me away into a shadowed alcove. I can't help but notice her expression was tinged with something a lot like fear.

"I wouldn't tell just anyone this but I like you Astoria."

I'm surprised by this confession and heavily dubious about what she's going to say next.

"I want to give you a warning about Draco Malfoy, from one witch to another."

My eyes skid over her face. Is she serious? She certainly seems to be. Does she still hold a flame for him? Is she jealous of me? Is she going to hurt me? Why is she bothering to pull me aside? I don't understand her motive. I know she doesn't really like me. I can't dislodge the look of fear that laced her just a moment before.

"He's dangerous and he's trouble," she hisses and I can tell she's deadly serious. "He's not some damaged little boy that needs rescuing. He's seriously fucked up. I used to be his girlfriend, so I know."

"Messed up how?" I ask, frowning slightly. "I don't understand why you're telling me this. We were only talking."

"No you weren't. Or at least he wasn't," she says sharply. She's not making any sense to me. "I can't say any more than that, Astoria. You just have to trust me."

Pansy casts about nervously, checking that neither Draco nor Narcissa are looking our way. I don't get why she's so paranoid. I don't understand her need for secrecy or whatever's going on. My confusion shows on my face because Pansy gives me a hard, honest look and says emphatically:

"Stay away from Draco Malfoy."


	5. Chapter 5

**Title:** Dance with the Devil  
**Author Name:** Shy Unicorn  
**Rating:**M  
**Genre:** Romance/Friendship  
**Main Character(s):** Astoria Greengrass and Draco Malfoy  
**Ship(s):** Astoria/Draco, Lucius/Narcissa, Narcissa/OC, Lucius/OC  
**Summary:** Four years after Voldemort is vanquished Astoria Greengrass starts working for 'Witch Weekly' magazine as a feature writer. Her very first job is to interview Draco Malfoy who has just made his first million galleons without the aid of his rich parents. What happens when they meet?  
**Author's Note (A/N): **Thanks to everyone who's reviewed, favorited and followed. You guys are the best. I really love your feedback. I hope you all enjoy this new installment!

**Dance with the Devil**

**Chapter Five: Draco's Deal**

Despite Pansy's warning words I go to meet Draco Malfoy in Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop. I can't shake off the feeling that she was warning me off him because of some ulterior motive of hers rather than for my benefit. Admittedly she seemed wary of the Malfoys but I just can't bring myself to trust her.

I Apparate to Hogsmeade where the weather is cooler and the skies are overcast with enormous black clouds that only seem possible in Scotland. The small market town is quieter than I've ever seen it because I rarely come here on weekdays. The air is chilly and the scent of pines and mountains makes me think lovingly of Hogwarts.

I don't have much of a lunch break so I head straight to Madam Puddifoot's though I'd like to wander around _Honeyduke's_ and _Selwyn's Salves_ – which sells fun toiletries, bath products and perfumes.

Just like last time I met Draco Malfoy for lunch he's already there waiting for me even though I'm on time. He's set up camp at a small table in the back corner. An unexpected surge of happiness engulfs me when I see him. He stands up so quickly when he sees me it's as if someone has set fire to his chair.

I raise a hand in welcome and weave my way through the network of tables. When I get to him there's an awkward moment where we both don't know how to greet each other. Handshaking is too formal and he doesn't come across as the hugging or air kissing type.

"Hi," we both say rather lamely and dawdle for a moment before sitting down.

"How's your morning been?" I ask, shrugging out of my cloak.

"Busy. I've gone from meeting to meeting. You?"

"Hectic as always, but I like that," I say, hanging my satchel on the back of my seat and getting comfortable.

"I ordered coffee already," Draco informs me.

"Thanks," I say, grateful of his thoughtfulness. "You haven't been waiting long have you? I am on time, aren't I?"

I pull my clock necklace out from under the collar of my dress and check the time. It's only a couple minutes past one so I'm definitely not late.

"I could probably set my watch by you. You're very punctual. It's one of the things that first impressed me about you. You definitely don't keep a wizard waiting," he says and there's a hint of innuendo in his tone that makes me smile.

If only he knew the half of it, I think to myself, as the whole Zach Smith failed summer romance comes to mind.

"I guess my parents taught me well," I say breezily as a stout witch comes over to our table.

The waitress cheerfully sets down a cheese platter with crackers, grapes and a pat of butter. Draco cocks his head to the side and I sense that my remark has interested him in some way. He doesn't follow it up. He bows his head and sips his coffee.

Draco's skin is clear and very pale, it has a milky transparency that I find intriguing because it's delicately beautiful and contrasts with his strong jaw and razor sharp cheekbones. His eyebrows, eyelashes and hint of facial hair are fine and spun-sugar blond. Why is it that boys are blessed with perfect eyelashes and girls have to work so hard on theirs? All these things flash through my mind when I look at him.

"I didn't expect you'd want to see me after that interview."

"You were just doing your job," Draco drawls as he gets to work cutting slices of cheese. "But I don't do this for all the journalists who write good things about me, you know."

He looks up at me through those lovely eyelashes and I get tingly and hot when I think about him being interested in me.

"I'm glad you made an exception," I tell him, smiling with a mixture of pleasure and bashfulness.

Draco doesn't smile or react in any obvious way I interpret the minutia of his pose – the angle of his body to mine and the size of his pupils - to mean that he's encouraged by my words.

He butters me some crackers and serves me cheese and grapes. We pick over last night's events and although I don't feel completely comfortable talking with him the conversation keeps on coming. He makes me laugh with his witticisms about the other guests and it turns out he's a pretty good mimic. He's particularly good at the sycophantic bowing and scraping of Mafalda Vane, which reminds me.

"What's the deal with your family and Ottoline Higgs? There seemed to be some tension there last night. I mean, I get it, she's a total vampire."

"Yeah, that's about right," Draco crows. "It all happened years and years ago but Mother never forgave old Higgy for her part in the drama."

I look at him expectantly. It sounds like there's a juicy gossipy story there but he doesn't elaborate. He flips his head impatiently which makes his sleek blond hair fall back into line and out of his eyes.

"You haven't been at _Witch Weekly_ long, have you?" he asks and this time there's a hint of a smirk on his lips.

"Is it that obvious?" I ask him self-consciously.

"No," he assures me, "but I bet the people you work with tell all sorts of stories about Ottoline Higgs over tea and biscuits. She's been around the Quidditch pitch a couple of times, if you see my meaning."

"Really!? How scandalous," I say salaciously, although the thought of Ottoline Higgs even touching someone else makes me want to dry heave.

"What did you do before _Witch Weekly_?" Draco asks me.

"I did an internship at Whizz Hard Books. What about you? Did you do anything besides investing and business? You wouldn't say when I interviewed you."

"After Hogwarts I took a year out and went traveling when I could… there were commitments that I had to come back for. I would have graduated the summer of the Battle of Hogwarts."

I think he's alluding to missed exams but I'm not one hundred per cent sure what he means by 'commitments'. The Battle of Hogwarts certainly messed with a lot of people's schooling. It was a strange time starting back at Hogwarts the autumn after the war. Half of the castle was still in ruins and people were retaking exams and entire school years. The fact that O.W.L and N.E.W.T results mattered after what we'd all experienced seemed absurd.

"Have you traveled much?" Draco asks, popping a grape into his mouth.

"A little," I say quietly, distracted by the pout of his lips as he chews in a rhythmically hypnotic way.

"I took a gap year too. I went across Asia with some friends. It was incredible. I'd like to travel more. I'd like to go to Paris, everyone says it's gorgeous," I say very quickly when I realize I'm staring at him.

"It is. We could go there at the weekend if you want," he suggests in a tone like going to Paris is the same as walking for here to _Honeyduke's_.

"You'd take me to Paris this weekend? Just like that?" I ask skeptically.

"Just like that." Draco clicks his fingers.

"I thought millionaires were frugal," I remind him, picking a grape off the bunch and tossing it into my mouth.

"We are, but we're still millionaires," Draco smirks. "A weekend in Paris won't clean out my vault. We could spend Saturday seeing the sights, go to the ballet and spend all day Sunday exploring the _Musee de la Magie_."

"I suppose that's just a regular weekend for you?" I grin.

"Unfortunately not, but if I'm going to take you to Paris for the very first time I want to do it properly."

He gives me a surveying look.

"You're not joking are you?" I gasp in awe and cover my disbelieving smile with my hand.

"Why would I be?" he asks nonplussed.

"Jeez, Draco…" I want to tell him that's not normal behavior but I think that might hurt his feelings. "I have so much work to do. I don't know if I can take the time off…"

"Are you always this driven?" he asked coolly.

"When I care about something," I reply, a little abashed. "What do you care about most?"

"That's a very personal question," he remarks, refusing to look at me.

I can see now that he's annoyed or hurt by my reluctance to go to Paris with him. He's being petulant rather than evasive like he sometimes is when I ask him probing questions. He's actually kind of adorable when he's sulking.

"I won't publish your answers to my questions this time, I promise," I rib, smiling broadly and leaning closer to him. "It's just me asking this time."

I catch his eye and he sits back in his chair to better observe me.

"You have a beautiful smile, you know?" he says, there's a gleam in his eye and I know he's trying to distract me on purpose.

"Answer the question, Malfoy," I challenge playfully.

"Once upon a time I'd have said my family but I'm not sure anymore," he says and his honesty disarms me.

I wasn't expecting him to be so serious and frank, but I'm deeply satisfied with his answer. It's the first time he's come close to being open with me.

"Do you live at home?" he asks.

"No. I moved out a month ago. I'm living with some friends in London. You?" I pick up my coffee and take a sip. I don't expect him to give me a straight answer, but he does.

"I live on the family estate but not in the Big House."

"Oh?" The inflection in my voice belies my curiosity.

"It's more convenient to me if I don't. Mother still lives there, so I often go up to visit a couple of times a week."

The fact that his family has an 'estate' and more than one house on it doesn't exactly surprise me but it does remind me of how totally different our lives are.

"What about your dad?"

The question is out of my mouth before I've really thought it through. At once Draco seems uneasy. I didn't mean to put my foot in it. It's just that I always think of my mum and dad as a pair or a team. There isn't one without the other for very long.

"Do you like living with your friends?" Draco asks, changing the subject.

I remind myself that Draco's dad is a sensitive subject and to steer clear of it in the future.

"Yes, I do," I say more brightly than I feel. The thought of Draco's dad maybe not being on the scene much makes me sad for him. My dad is awesome. I don't know what I'd do without him. "It's fun."

"And you were at Hogwarts with them, in Slytherin?"

"Xenia was in Slytherin. Bai - we call him Pace because he's music obsessed- was in Ravenclaw," I enumerate, happy to be back onto a safe topic.

"You live with him but he's not your boyfriend?" Draco questions and gives me one of his probing serious looks.

"He's not my boyfriend, no. I don't have one. Do you?"

"A boyfriend?" Draco's eyebrow quirks deliciously and I think I like him best when he's playful. "No, no boyfriend, no girlfriend. I'm not good at relationships. I don't do them well. They tend to end badly."

"It always takes two," I remind him, because even though he's still being light hearted he seems to be berating himself.

"Yes, it does, which is why I brought this with me."

He reaches down and picks up a black dragon-hide briefcase I haven't noticed before. I watch as he unclips the ornate silver fastenings and takes out a roll of parchment, which he hands to me.

"What's this?" I ask, awash with confusion. "Aren't I usually the one with the paperwork?"

"It's a Secrecy Agreement," he says and I notice he's become cool and business-like with me once more. "I need for you to sign it if you want to see me again."

My good mood plummets. I feel totally confused and blindsided by this new development. I look at the scroll in my hand and frown at him. His face is solemn and his silvery eyes watch me intently.

"Do you make all your friends sign secrecy agreements?" I ask, trying for humor but end up sounding incredulous.

"I don't want you to be just my friend, Astoria," he says with such intensity I can feel my mouth go dry and my cheeks burn in an instant.

"I thought a minute ago you said you don't do girlfriends," I remind him and unroll the parchment.

It's a proper legal, magically binding document with a crest and a seal – it's the whole nine yards. My mind jumps to Pansy. Is this why she wouldn't tell me any more last night at the party – because she _couldn't_? Has she signed one of these in the past?

"I said I'm not good at relationships but I'd like to try. With you. If you want to."

It's my turn to do the hard looking thing.

I was having a really nice time with him and this has thrown a hex in the works. I want to get to know him but I don't want to sign the agreement. Not out of any quiet desire to sell his secrets but because the whole idea of it offends me – it shows he doesn't trust me.

I honestly don't see why a secrecy agreement is necessary. He's so remote and closed off getting anything personal out of him is like trying to get blood from a stone. I find it highly unlikely that once I sign this agreement the floodgates of emotion will burst open.

"I would never tell anyone anything you wanted me to keep private," I tell him firmly, looking him straight in his smart grey eyes.

"I can see that you mean that," he says respectfully, which mollifies me slightly, "and I'd like to believe you but I don't take chances. If you want me to take you to Paris then you'll have to sign."

"That's bribery."

"I'm just reminding you what's on offer," he says with the trace of a smile hedging his lips. "I want to take you to Paris, Astoria. I want to get to know you."

"But you don't trust me," I say flatly.

"Not yet. I'm sorry if that offends you." He doesn't sound very sorry at all.

"It does. I haven't done anything to make you question my integrity," I point out indignantly.

"I know. It's just that there have been _indiscretions_ in the past that I'd like to avoid. It's nothing personal against you. I value my privacy, maybe one day you'll understand why." There's a great heaviness in his voice as he tells me this.

"Help me understand now," I plead.

"I can't do that. It's complicated."

We sit and look at each other and it's obvious we've come to a stalemate. He's not going to back down, that much is obvious. Everything in me wants to dig my heels into the ground like a stubborn mule. I haven't done anything to make him doubt my trustworthiness. I feel like he's judging me by the standard of other people and that isn't fair. The problem is I do want to spend more time with him.

"So this Secrecy Agreement, if I sign it I can't tell _anyone_ anything about you? Not even my friends or my parents?" I query, glancing over it.

"Of course you can, it's not a Fidelius Charm," Draco sneers.

I give him a sharp look. I'm trying to be the reasonable one here. I don't appreciate being made to feel stupid.

"There are some delicate matters that the secrecy agreement bars you from talking about. It's all there on the page. I'm not hiding anything from you," he says innocently.

I give him an ironic look. It seems like he's hiding so much from me he needs me to sign a secrecy agreement before I can go on another date with him!

I shift uncomfortably. Maybe Pansy was telling the truth after all. What if Draco Malfoy really is crazy or in need of some kind of psychological help. I don't want to sign anything that might come back to haunt me if something very bad were to happen.

"What if I get worried about you and I need to ask an outsider for help – like a Healer or some other kind of professional? Does your contract prohibit that?"

"I'd never thought about that…" Draco's long fingered hand cups his chin as he mulls it over.

I feel angry that no one in the past seems to have cared enough about him to ask such a glaringly obvious question about his dumb contract.

"I suppose it does in some situations but Astoria, it's not that kind of a secrecy agreement. I'm not a mad axe man! I don't plan on putting myself or you in any situation that would require medical intervention – will you just read it for goodness sake?"

I open it out on the table and take a moment to read. The script is elaborate and a lot of the wording is dense but it's actually not as absurd as I'd expected. It's still insanely controlling and shows a disappointing lack of faith in humanity but it's not unheard of considering who he is and what he does.

Most of the clauses actually relate more to any information I might find out about his parents than to anything else. The other topics are the no-brainers like his money, any potential sexploits, his business contacts and personal information like his home address and Floo details.

I press my fingers against my eyes and take a steadying breath. Draco is subtly anxious. His mouth is a thin line and he's jammed his fingers together so tightly it looks like someone's put a body-bind on them.

"I'm not going to sign it, Draco." I tell him at last.

He looks crestfallen and then furious.

"Well then I can't see you again. It's as simple as that," he snaps venomously and it pains me to see him so hurt and spiteful.

"I'm not going to sign it because I don't want a legal document to replace real trust in a relationship," I tell him evenly. "I'd want you to know that I'm loyal to you and keep your secrets because I respect you and I'm trustworthy – not because some jinx or curse keeps me from talking about it. I can see why you might need a document like this for some girls – but I'm not one of them."

I get up and gather my things together.

All the while Draco sits stonily in his seat, arms folded, chin jutting out harshly, grinding his teeth in quiet resentment. He's refusing to look at me and has focused his steely eyes on the wall.

"Thanks for lunch," I mumble and I turn to leave.

As I walk out of the shop I want him to call out or come after me. I want some dramatic moment of reconciliation but it doesn't happen. Besides, I've made up my mind. I'm not going to bend my principles for some guy, even if he is the gorgeous and mysterious Draco Malfoy.


	6. Chapter 6

**Title:** Dance with the Devil  
**Author Name:** Shy Unicorn  
**Rating:**M  
**Genre:** Romance/Friendship  
**Main Character(s):** Astoria Greengrass and Draco Malfoy  
**Ship(s):** Astoria/Draco, Lucius/Narcissa, Narcissa/OC, Lucius/OC  
**Summary:** Four years after Voldemort is vanquished Astoria Greengrass starts working for 'Witch Weekly' magazine as a feature writer. Her very first job is to interview Draco Malfoy who has just made his first million galleons without the aid of his rich parents. What happens when they meet?  
**Author's Note (A/N): **Hi guys, here's the new chapter as promised. I hope you enjoy it!

**Dance with the Devil**

**Chapter Six: A Perfect Day**

At 11am on Saturday morning I'm sat at the rickety dining room table with its mismatched chairs nursing a cup of tea and a quasi-hangover. I'm in my dressing gown and I trying not to look at the kitchen which looks like a bomb has exploded in there. A very delicious bomb, I should add, because there's cake batter, chocolate sprinkles and icing sugar everywhere.

"Holy cupcakes, Barny!" Xenia grumbles when she pads into the room and sees the mess we created last night.

"My thoughts exactly," I concur. "You want tea? I just made a pot."

Xenia makes a grateful sound in the back of her throat and flops down opposite me. She scrubs her face and blinks hard a couple times. There's make-up smeared across her face and her eyes are blood-shot and tired. That makes two of us.

I summon a cup from the wreckage of the kitchen and fill it for her.

As I pass it to her she holds up a plate of cookies, "Snickerdoodle?"

"Please, no! I don't think I've digested the Battenburg cake I ate last night," I sob, only half in jest. "I don't think I slept so much as fell into a diabetic coma."

Xenia laughs and together we take stock of the obscene amount of baked goods on the table in front of us. There's a mountain of cupcakes, two heaping platters of cookies and several Bakewell Tarts. The Batternburg cake is completely gone, only a few yellow and pink crumbs remain on a plate to attest its existence.

"I guess we baked all your feelings last night," Xenia deadpans.

I think she's right. I'm feeling pretty good this morning.

I didn't walk away from my lunch with Draco completely unscathed. I had a pity party for the rest of the week. It wasn't about Draco per se or my decision not to sign the Secrecy Agreement. It was more about things never being straightforward in my life. I was angry and sad about the Zach situation, and then the Draco debacle happened. I was also mad at myself for somehow being unable to get into a relationship with a boy. Other girls seem to manage just fine.

A sharp, demanding knock on the front door has me and Xenia looking at each other in surprise. Xenia slides out of her seat and goes to answer the door in her pajama shorts and over-sized t-shirt.

"Oh, hello. Is Astoria in?"

I recognize that honey drawl in an instant.

"Uh, yeah," Xenia says awkwardly.

My blood runs cold and I look down at myself in horror. I'm wearing my blue towel bath robe and my hair is scraped back in a messy ponytail. I don't have time to dive into my bedroom to hide.

Draco Malfoy appears and he looks squeaky clean and starched to perfection amid the chaos of our apartment. He's wearing neat black robes and shiny black dragon-hide shoes. His blond hair is parted on the side, his parting ruler straight. His grey eyes travel slowly over the scene before settling on me. I want the ground to swallow me up.

"Hi, I err hope I'm not intruding on anything," he says and has the decency to look embarrassed for me. "I waited until I thought you'd be up."

Xenia, who's been hovering behind him, sneaks forward and snatches up her cup of tea. She points to her room in an exaggerated way and tip-toes in that direction leaving me alone with Draco. I don't know whether to be grateful or whether to summon her back.

"Do you want tea?" I ask hesitantly, not knowing what else to do.

"Uh, sure," Draco says and cautiously lowers himself into Xenia's vacated seat.

I doubt he's ever been anywhere as messy as this in his life. We are certainly not at The Heliotrope Hotel now.

As I pour him tea I can't help but notice his eyes flitting around the room like two birds brought in by a cat.

We don't have much furniture yet and what we do have is all second hand and jumbled. The sofa in the corner has a hideous floral pattern and is covered in cat hair from Pace's cat, Gaston, who sheds everywhere. My old Hogwarts trunk is doubling as a coffee table. In lieu of artwork we've propped up our favorite vinyl record sleeves along the picture rail that encircles the open-plan, all-purpose living area. The low bookcase showcases an array of books from baking to necromancy as well as Xenia's good-luck ceramic frog (a moving-out gift from one of her brothers) and a biscuit tin the shape of a wireless box.

"All we need now is the Diagon Alley street sign and a muggle traffic cone and we'll have the stereotypical newly graduated Hogwarts décor perfected," I joke self-consciously.

"It's not so bad," Draco says mildly, his eyes trailing over the mound of baked goods. "Goyle and Nott's place was so incredibly noxious even mould refused to live there."

"We're not there yet, though you can see we're trying."

"What was the special occasion?" he waves to the kitchen and the baked goods.

"You've never gotten drunk and had a bake-off with your housemates before?" I ask in tones suggestive of this being a normal phenomenon.

"Can't say I have, but then I live alone."

"Help yourself to a cupcake or a cookie. Xenia's Snickerdoodles are very good," I say because Draco is looking at my cupcakes in a morbidly fascinated way.

They're topped with rainbow icing, chocolate sprinkles and gummy bats. They look like something a four-year-old would have made but they taste amazing. He tentatively takes one that's light on icing but heavy on gummy bats.

"I didn't think I'd be seeing you again so soon," I say frankly. "Come to think of it, how did you find out where I live?"

"I wrote to your office. They gave me your address without any fuss, which you might want to have a word with them about," he says, clearly aware that his behavior is very sneaky. "I needed to speak to you in person."

"I thought you couldn't see me again," I say satirically.

"Yes, that's what I wanted to talk to you about," Draco says delicately, wiping a blob of icing from the corner of his lip. There's a little sugary halo where it's been. "Perhaps I was a little hasty."

"There _are_ more romantic ways to ask a girl to be your girlfriend than getting her to sign legal documents," I say gently.

"I know," he says and fiddles with cupcake case, stalling for what he's going to say next.

He pulls a crumpled crisp packet out of his pocket and holds it out to me in cupped hands like it's a flower or a pygmy puff. I raise my eyebrow in question. It's an _empty_ crisp packet.

"It's a Portkey," he explains, watching me very closely. "After you said your piece I went away and I – I want to take you to Paris if you want to go."

"You do!?" I squeal, unable to keep the excitement from my voice.

"Yes, I do. I kept thinking about it all week," he says, looking down and talking more to the crisp packet than to me. "I got up this morning and thought '_what the hell'_ and bought the Portkey. It's due to bring us back this evening. I didn't want to keep you from your work."

He's uncomfortably humble when he looks at me but it quickly turns to pleasure when he sees how I'm beaming at him. I am beyond delighted that he's changed his mind about not seeing me again. I'm also really touched that he respects how seriously I take my work.

I realize in this moment that I've sort of missed him in the brief few days it's been since we last met. Okay, so in that time I was trying to come to terms with never seeing him again, which probably made them seem much longer.

"When do we leave?"

He checks his watch and grimaces.

"Now," he says apologetically. "You've got about seven minutes."

I leap up and rush from the room. I hear Draco chuckle as I slam my bedroom door. It's a nice sound I just wish it wasn't at my expense.

I make it back into the living room with half a minute to spare.

I quite like taking Portkeys. The sensation is a little odd, like being harnessed internally and dragged through the air at a thousand miles an hour. The rush when you hit your destination and your brain is still doing spirals in your skull is what I like best.

Draco and I appear behind a dustbin in a narrow alleyway crowded with cars and bikes. Either side of us huge, elegant cream buildings topped with blue slate roofs stretch skyward. A gentle rain is falling and all around us the city hums.

I grin across at Draco, who is looking a little grey from traveling. He straightens up and returns my smile with an impish one of his own. He takes me by the hand and sets off running.

I quickly discover the Latin Quarter of Paris is bisected by the Boulevard St. Germain and the Boulevard St. Michel. The broad, tree-lined streets are thronged with quaint bistros and shops with different colored awnings. These two streets are the arteries running through the area, with the hundreds of crooked streets leading off them like capillaries.

Draco navigates with ease. He bobs and weaves through the muggle city dwellers and the labyrinth of streets. As he tugs me along I feel like a balloon that belongs to a happy little boy. We bend again and our feet echo on the cobbled stones as we run, laughing breathlessly. Draco only slows down when we come to a small square facing an old, yellow stone building that looks like a church.

It's very peaceful here. There's a tinkling square fountain and several muggles are sat outside a bistro, smoking cigarettes and having brunch. The delicious aroma of coffee and fresh bread is thick in the air. This part of the city feels very old and even though we're still in muggle Paris I can sense magic close by. Draco leads the way up the steps to the church's ornate black doors. He holds one open for me. I step through it expecting to find myself indoors but I don't.

I'm now standing in the corner of a vaulted arcade looking out onto a vast square enclosed by exquisite French Renaissance buildings all with long, narrow windows and tall white chimneys. In the center of the square is a gated park with square topiary trees and neat geometric lawns. Picnicking families are crowding under the trees to escape the sudden shower of rain. White gravel promenades are lined by musicians and artists and converge at a round fountain with jets of water that skip and bounce.

"This is beautiful," I gasp, as Draco comes to stand beside me.

"You don't have a cloak. You're all wet," he observes and he's right.

I hardly noticed I was having so much fun looking at everything. My thin cotton dress is sopping wet and see-through all along my shoulders.

"I'm fine," I say brightly. "Where should we go first?"

"We'll to start by getting you a cloak and then getting something hot to drink so you don't catch cold," he says firmly. "Then I want to show you the toy shop, the perfumery and we have to go to _Clymence's."_

All I can do is nod.

Draco takes me passed _Gladrags_ (the only place I recognize) to another robe maker's which is much grander and chicer than anything I've ever come across. The manikin in the window is wearing a silk cape that reminds me of the Triwizard Tournament and the Beauxbatons uniform. It transports me back to being twelve years old and how those French witches seemed so exotic and grown-up to us. With a gentle hand at the base of my spine Draco urges me into the shop.

It's light and spacious and the clothes are arranged by color and style. It's empty apart from us, until a heavy curtain is pushed back and a short, slim witch comes forward. She's incredibly old and has dark grey hair but perfect posture and is wearing impeccably tailored robes. She talks at us in rapid French and I have to look askance at Draco because I don't have a clue what she's saying. He explains to her in broken French what we're looking for.

"I really don't think I can afford anything in here," I mutter to Draco while looking through the selection of cloaks we've been shown. They're all gorgeous.

"I know it costs an arm and a leg but it's high quality stuff. Have whatever you like, it can be my treat. I did drag you out here with only a moment's notice." Unlike me he's not bothering to keep his voice down.

"I couldn't do that," I say at once.

"You're going to have to, aren't you? Unless you want to wear my cloak all day?"

"It's too generous to buy me something from here!" I protest.

Draco folds his arms and gives me an unimpressed look.

"Are you going to pick something or do I have to choose?" he says.

I can see that he's made up his mind and is going to be totally stubborn about this.

"I will pay you back some day," I tell him severely.

"Yeah, yeah, you keep telling yourself that," he mutters and waves me to get back to picking something out.

I choose a pale grey knit cloak the same color as his eyes. I do plan on paying him back. He's got to be crazily into me to pay that much for a cloak. The thought makes my heart flutter in my chest.

Once out of the clothes shop Draco keeps his promise and shows me everywhere. We get cups of coffee and hot, savory crepes from a steamy bistro packed with intellectual looking witches and wizards. We go to the famous toyshop and spend half an hour trying to find the ugliest stuffed toy (it ends up being a slightly manic looking owl). _Auteuil's Perfumery_ is a little shop lined from floor to ceiling with thousands of bottles of unique perfumes and is run by a wizened old man in a violet top hat. The bottles are almost as interesting as what's inside them and we take our time sniffing and sneezing to find our favorites. We go to the apothecary, the book store, a shop dedicated entirely to Astronomy that I think Daphne would like a lot.

We each pay a galleon to go to the _Musee de la Magie_ and look at the ancient magical artifacts. In rooms of marble and stone Draco shows me tribal masks from Mesopotamian wizards. Together we pour over the stone tablets of Indian Sanskrit writings on ancient magic. I point out the grand headdresses and jewelry from Russia, which Draco somehow knows all about. He tells me tales of two warring magical factions and how they employed giants to smash each other to pieces to try and gain power over the great Neva River.

Draco takes me to a dramatically painted room which houses all kinds of weapons, wands and wonders left over from the early magical settlement of Paris. There are restless stone gargoyles in glass cases, relics from lost buildings and rather weirdly Pierre Bonaccord, the first Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards' death mask. We laugh at how big and jowly his face was.

After hours of browsing the silent splendor of the museum Draco and I are both glad to get outside in the fresh air. We share a sleeve of macaroons and head back into muggle Paris so we can walk to Nicholas Flamel's old house. By now the rain has stopped, the sky has cleared and the sun is setting, creating pale orange and pink tapers over the city like carnival streamers.

We stand on the pavement of the deserted muggle street and look at the renowned alchemists' old house. It's a simple medieval building of dark stone with ornately carved wooden doors and window frames on the ground floor. The street is quiet and a meditative silence falls over us.

"What would you like people to say about you once you're dead?" I ask quietly, breaking a raspberry macaroon in half.

Draco takes his half and chews thoughtfully.

"I'd want to be remembered as someone who made a difference somehow," he says with conviction. "What about you?"

I look at the old Flamel house and wonder about all of the past inhabitants of the place – who were they, what made them smile, what troubles did they experience, what joys?

"I don't know. I'd like to be a published author, so people could remember me through my words. But I guess it would be enough just to be remembered by someone, don't you think? By my children, I mean, or close friends."

"That doesn't last for long. It's much easier to remember someone for what they've done than for who they were."

There's a long, thoughtful silence as we both contemplate his words.

"You're right," I say, turning that thought over in my mind like a precious stone. "I've never thought of it like that before."

The setting sun is casting a bright glare across his cheek, making his pale skin shine moon bright. His profile is strong and sharp and looking at him like that I have the overwhelming urge to kiss the tip of his pointy, pinched nose.

He looks at me and there is such a sad longing in his eyes I reach out to comfort him. I smooth my hand down his arm and take his hand in mine, cementing the gesture with a tender squeeze. I don't know what makes him so heavyhearted but I hope he can let it go one day. Simply by looking at him I know that people shouldn't ever have to carry burdens like his.

"What now?" I ask hopefully, wanting to lighten the mood.

His eyes dance over my face.

"You want to see more?" His voice is rich with pleasant surprise.

"Yes, please," I say sweetly, looking at him with big entreating eyes.

"Our Portkey is almost due to take us back to England, which is a shame because we still haven't been to _Clymence's_ or seen any of the other things I wanted to show you," he says with exaggerated wistfulness.

"Other things?" I ask bewildered.

"Other things," he says mysteriously. "Of course, we could miss the Portkey and get another one tomorrow…"

"We could?"

"We could," he informs me mischievously, "but I thought a certain person had work that needed to be done?"

He holds both of my hands, lacing his fingers through them and it feels so good to be touching him. I hang my head, trying to hide my smile as I shuffle my feet.

I don't _need_ to be back home just yet. There'll always be tomorrow for anything I need to do for the magazine. Plus, I really want to keep spending time with him. Coupled with there being more of Paris to see, how can I take that Portkey?

"Where to next?" I ask eagerly, looking up into his handsome face.

"Got you," he murmurs jubilantly.

Our faces are so close together standing like this, hands entwined, our smiles mirroring each other's. I can smell his candy breath and the boyish scent of his laundry soap or cologne. His lips are the same color as the raspberry macaroons we've just eaten and when he kisses me they taste just as sweet.

When the fireworks have finished popping behind my eyes I see that Draco is smiling and I stretch up on tip-toes to kiss him again. His lips are warm and soft beneath mine. When I stand back his eyes are shining.

He takes me to _Clymence's _which turns out to be a patisserie. It is a dessert paradise. Each cake and tart and petit-four is a miniature work of art. I order a strawberry tartlet, while Draco has a scrumptious looking tart au citron. We sit at the bar in the window and watch people go by and talk about all of the cool things we saw in the _Musee de la Magie_.

From there we meander through the elegant, tree-lined boulevards of Paris, arm-in-arm. It's colder and the air smells like river water and traffic fumes. We end up at the Eiffel Tower. Night has fallen so the whole metal structure is lit up with electric lights. It's brighter than anything I'm used to and hurts my eyes if I look at it for too long, which is fine because it gives me an excuse to look at Draco some more.

I've never been the romantic type but looking over at him as we're sat on the grass beneath the Eiffel Tower I feel like the happiest, wobbliest jellyfish of a girl in the whole world.

"Thank you," I whisper, laying my head dreamily on his shoulder.

"What for?"

"For this. For being you," I shrug. "I think I just had the best day of my life."

Draco tilts his head to the side and looks at me meditatively. Then he kisses me again.

As I run my hands through his sleek hair my heart pounds so hard it actually hurts, the rest of my organs have melted and turned to fudge sauce. I can feel it pooling between my legs. His tongue peeks into my mouth, hot and satiny smooth against my own. My veins feel like they've been filled with melted wax as we continue the sweet, slow exploration of each other. I could sit and kiss him forever like this.

"Come on, it's getting late," Draco says at last. "It's dangerous to be out with so many crazy muggles around."

His eyes are sleepy with lust and his mouth is pink and plump from my kisses. He has never looked sexier.

"Where are we going to go?" I ask as he helps me to my feet. "I hadn't thought about where we'd sleep earlier on."

"We'll go to a hotel I know. I always use it when I'm in town," he says easily.

As we walk I have this internal tug of war going on because I'm worried that he expects me to sleep with him – isn't that what people do when they go to hotels after mind-blowing dates and hour long kisses?

I'm in a state of heightened tension because I think I _do_ want to sleep with him and I've never felt like that about anyone before. The problem is the first date seems too soon and I'm scared that'll make me seem like a slut and that I won't be any good but I sort of don't care because the idea of having sex with Draco is incredibly appealing right now.

With every step I psych myself out more so that when Draco touches my back, ushering me into the hotel I'm trembling like a leaf.

The place is magnificent, it's clearly the French equivalent of the Heliotrope Hotel. Everything is marble, gilt and looks like it was painted by the grand masters of European art. There are leafy plants and chairs in the lobby and because the place isn't grand enough already a huge inky piano is playing a concerto all by itself.

"Allo Monsieur Malfoy," the concierge wizard says politely. "You are back again so soon!"

"Hello, Alphonse. Two rooms please, together and on the top floor if you've got them," Draco says as casually as he did when he ordered us drinks at the bistro this morning.

I quietly let out a sigh of relief when I realize he's asked for two rooms. Clearly the level of freak out I was experiencing proves I'm not ready to lose my v-card just yet.

Draco and I take the elevator up to the seventh floor. It's now that I notice he's become quiet and distant with me, rolling up like a snail and hiding in his shell.

"What's wrong?" I ask Draco softly as we reach our bedroom doors, which are side by side just like he asked.

Draco hesitates. He looks down at his room key for a long moment.

"I really like you, which is why you should know… I'm not – I'm not a good person."

When he looks up there's clay heaviness in every line of his face. His grey eyes are wearier than ever. He hangs his head so he doesn't have to look at me for long.

"You can't take me on the most perfect date in the world and the end the night with that," I say disbelievingly. "It's not fair and it's not true."

"Astoria… you don't know anything about me."

"I do. I mean, I don't know much but I know that you like savory pancakes, your favorite -"

"That's not what I mean and you know it," he says impatiently.

"I know how you've acted towards me," I say coaxingly.

I lift his chin up. I want to be able to look him in the eyes and tell him what I think of him.

"You've been nothing but generous and understanding. Draco, no one is perfect, but you come pretty close."

"You wouldn't be saying that if you knew what I've seen… what I've done."

He frowns at me and gives me that same intent look, like a watchful wild animal, that first thrilled and intrigued me. I look steadily back at him. The anguish in his voice frightens me but I don't want him to know that so I try to keep my face impassive.

"Tell me and let me make up my own mind. Tell me when you're ready – I don't want to pressure you," I say compassionately and add, "I know it sounds lame and babyish but my mum always says it's only okay to keep happy secrets. _Sad secrets need to be shared._"

I give him a stern look and Draco smiles in spite of himself, which makes me smile too. I feel elated that I might have gotten him out of his spiral of self hatred or whatever that just was.

"You're the most incredible person I've ever met," he breathes, his eyes fixed on my face adoringly.

I feel like someone has filled me with hot water. I'm blushing so hard I can feel it stinging. To distract him from my red-faced embarrassment and because I've wanted to do it for the last half an hour I kiss him.

I kiss him harder than before and try to pour all of the sweet things I'm thinking about him into his head through my lips.


	7. Chapter 7

**Title:** Dance with the Devil  
**Author Name:** Shy Unicorn  
**Rating:**M  
**Genre:** Romance/Friendship  
**Main Character(s):** Astoria Greengrass and Draco Malfoy  
**Ship(s):** Astoria/Draco, Lucius/Narcissa, Narcissa/OC, Lucius/OC  
**Summary:** Four years after Voldemort is vanquished Astoria Greengrass starts working for 'Witch Weekly' magazine as a feature writer. Her very first job is to interview Draco Malfoy who has just made his first million galleons without the aid of his rich parents. What happens when they meet?  
**Author's Note (A/N): **Hello all, new chapters will continue to appear on Fridays and Tuesdays. I hope you enjoy this new offering! Check out my blog for tidbits and behind the scenes info between updates.

**Dance with the Devil**

**Chapter Seven: Crossing Over**

My room has a stunning view of the River Seine. I dress early and sit for a long time watching the water, thinking on all that's happened in the last twenty-four hours. I feel like I'm living a dream.

A knock on the door has me on my feet. Of course it's Draco. He's standing in the doorway in yesterday's clothes looking as good as a bag of fresh ground coffee, I want to inhale him.

"Morning. I wasn't sure if you'd be up yet," he says, and there's a teasing gleam in his eye. "I wondered if you wanted to get breakfast?"

"That sounds good."

I feel shy around him. I'm worried yesterday was a one-time thing, like a granted wish, not a way of life. After some sleep and some time apart I wonder if he feels differently about me. I haven't changed my mind about him. I still feel open to him, like I did when we kissed outside my door last night.

"They have this fruit buffet here," Draco tells me in the elevator on the way down to the dinning room, "where they cut all the fruit into different shapes. You'll have to see it."

"How did you find out about this place?"

"A friend of my father's introduced us to it."

"He's got good taste," I say, looking around at the lobby as we arrive on the ground floor.

"_She_," Draco corrects me, and I don't know if he's implying something, because he takes me by the hand and leads me into the dinning room before I dare to ask.

It's like being in a palace. The ceiling is one big mural of Greek or Roman gods, the furniture is Louis XIV looking in gold and deep purple. There are plenty of other guests eating breakfast in the imperial looking room, all of them older and grander than us. It smells like warm pastries and fresh flowers.

We get a small table together and load up on fruit and croissants. He's right about the fruit being the best part; there are strawberry stars, mango snowflakes and kiwi flowers.

"What would you like to do today?" Draco asks, buttering his croissant. "We can go to the Luxemburg gardens or back to Place des Etoiles. There are plenty of things left to see."

"I have to get home," I confess.

My heart sinks at the thought of missing out on seeing more of Paris but most of all having to leave Draco. I don't want this trip to end.

"I always go to my parent's house for Sunday Dinner. They'll be expecting me."

"Oh," Draco breathes and I can tell he's disappointed. "We can go to the Ministry and get a Portkey when we're done here."

We eat in silence for a while. It slowly occurs to me that he might think I'm making an excuse to get away from him. Especially as his family set-up doesn't seem to be what I would consider orthodox. It doesn't seem like the Malfoys are big into family time these days. I sneak a look at him and even though he's just across the table Draco seems adrift in a way that pulls on my heartstrings.

"You don't… you don't want to come with me, do you?" I venture. "My parents always cook too much food, so it wouldn't be a big deal if you showed up with me. Daphne will probably be there. It's nothing special but… you're welcome to come, if you want."

Draco mulls this over as he eats.

"Both your parents would be there?" he asks gravely, his grey eyes hard to read.

"Yeah, but they're not scary. It's totally casual," I say quickly. Now that the thought has entered my mind I want him to come with me. "It won't be this big serious meet-the-parents situation. They're both pretty mellow."

"I'd like to meet your parents," Draco surprises me by saying. He gives me a ghost of a smile. "You've mentioned them a couple of times and I'm intrigued."

He's intrigued, about _my _parents? Does that mean it's okay for me to admit that I'm equally fascinated to know more about his parents, especially his dad who he's so enigmatic about.

I still haven't managed to work out how I feel about Narcissa Malfoy. I feel like I've got two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle and I'm trying to make them fit together and they just won't.

"I've met your mother, it's only fair you get to meet mine," I say amiably. "Although you might want to lower your expectations."

"What do you mean by that?" he asks, raising one of his eyebrows archly.

"I just mean there are no estates and Big Houses where I come from."

"That's a good thing," Draco says determinedly.

After our late breakfast Draco shows me the way to get to the French Ministry of Magic. We secure a Portkey quickly because it's a Sunday and there aren't many people around. We have just enough time to admire the Luxembourg Gardens which are so serene and tranquil, before we're magicked back to England.

The house that I grew up in is a couple of miles outside a very small village on the Norfolk coast. Our house is set back from a small country road that only farmers seem to use. It's very peaceful, surrounded by fields and trees. My parents are both keen gardeners so the front yard is neat and colorful with flowers.

I knock the front door because I'm too lazy to dig for my keys. I glance at Draco and I'm surprised to see he looks tense. I give him a reassuring smile as I hear someone fumbling with the catch.

My mum opens the door and I'm instantly swept up into her comforting arms. My mum is tall and strong with capable hands and short brown hair. She's wearing a knit sweater over her robes and she smells like lemons. She swears it's the only scent that can blot out the St. Mungoish smell that sticks to her clothes at the end of a long day.

"Hi Mama Bear," I mumble into her chest. She's taller and broader than me, which I like because even though I'm an adult being hugged by her still makes me feel safe, like a child again.

"Hello, Treasure! It's so good to see you," Mum says and kisses the top of my head.

"I um, I brought my - a – I brought Draco with me. Is that okay?"

I'm not exactly sure how to describe him. Is he my boyfriend? Is he a friend? I want him to be both but I don't know how he sees our relationship so I momentarily look like an idiot as I grope for a definition.

"Hello, Draco," Mum says cheerfully. "Come on in. The more the merrier."

Mum steps back and heads for the kitchen where she's marshalling the vegetables. In the cramped hallway Draco and I take off our cloaks and hang them on brass wall hooks.

"Hi Story!" Daphne calls from the living room.

"Hey Starry," I yell back, using her nickname. "This way," I add to Draco and lead him into the living room.

It's a cozy, semi-circular room at the back of the house with a view out onto the back garden. It's dark and womb-like; crammed full of furniture, knickknacks and photos of me and Daphne as kids. The walls are bare brick but there are paintings of ducks, badgers and landscapes at intervals. The sofas are burgundy corduroy and laden with cushions. On a low coffee table by the fire Daphne and her girlfriend Martha are playing wizard's chess.

"I bought someone you might know," I say brightly to Daphne and look over my shoulder at Draco who's lingering behind me.

"Oh my gosh! Hi!" Daphne exclaims leaping to her feet and rushing at Draco.

Daphne is shaped like a string bean: she's tall and wispy thin. Her long limbs are uncoordinated and she gives the impression of doing everything by accident. Her blonde hair is neatly bobbed and right now she's rocking a pair of 50's style winged glasses. People say we look very similar when half her face isn't covered by her glasses but I'm not so sure.

"How are you? I haven't seen you in forever!" Daphne gushes, hugging Draco. He looks completely bemused and overwhelmed by this succession of warm greetings.

"I'm – I'm very well, thanks," he manages while carefully extracting himself from my big sister's grip.

"Good. That's really good!" Daphne enthuses. "Come sit down."

She goes back to her spot on the floor. She sits with her back to one of the couches and lets her legs stretch out straight under the coffee table.

"Draco, this is Martha. Martha, Draco," I say by way of introduction as I flop down on the couch.

"Hi." Martha gives Draco a cute little wave.

Everything about Martha is cute. She's short and slightly plump with a round, pink-cheeked face and soulful brown eyes. When Daphne came out to our family no one was surprised. When she brought Martha home we were all overjoyed. Martha is a year older than Daphne and works in the Beast, Being and Spirit department at the Ministry of Magic where she mostly champions Merpeople's rights. She's very kind and clearly loves Daphne to pieces.

"I didn't know you two knew each other," Daphne says giving me a sly look.

I can't hide my feelings about Draco from her. Just one big smile tells her almost everything she needs to know.

"We've been hanging out ever since I interviewed him for work," I tell her.

My eyes flick to Draco to gauge his reaction to my words.

He's perched on the edge of the couch looking awkward with his hands in his lap. His silvery eyes are sweeping over the room. I'm somewhat amused to see he's about as fretful at meeting my parents as I was when I saw him with his mother. I really want to hold his hand but I don't because that suddenly seems too telling a gesture so I settle for giving him another brief smile.

"We've been spending some time together," Draco corroborates. "I've been showing her all the best parts of Paris this weekend."

Daphne's eyes bug out. He might as well have just told her that we're getting engaged because that's what it will sound like to anyone I know! We don't come from stock who jaunt to Paris for the weekend without a pretty important reason.

"Daphne, it was incredible. There's this shop in Place des Etoiles that you would love. They sell all kinds of star charts and models of the universe," I rush to say in order to avoid any questions. "It's like Wiseacre's but bigger!"

Her eyes travel curiously between Draco and I. I get the impression she's trying to tell if something big happened in Paris, like my grand deflowering.

"Did you go to the _Musee de la Magie_?" Martha asks keenly.

"Uh-huh. Did you know they have Pierre Bonaccord's death-mask? It was so weird!" I tell her as my dad comes in through the backdoor.

He's wearing his gardening gloves and is carrying a bowl of freshly picked blackberries.

"Hello, Astoria," he says in his gentle, slightly monotone voice. "Hello," he says in greeting to Draco.

I get up and hug my dad, who hugs me as best as he can without spilling the blackberries. My dad is a mild-mannered wizard, slight and hairy with a thin face and large, owl-like eyes.

"Who've you brought with you?" he asks, his protuberant blue eyes slowly traveling to the unfamiliar boy in his house. "Did you find him in the shrubbery?"

"Dad!" I groan and give him an affectionately displeased look. "This is Draco Malfoy. He was at school with Daphne."

"Oh, of course," Dad murmurs.

I see him tense at the name Malfoy.

"Francis? Can you come in here and do the spuds?" Mum calls from the kitchen.

"On my way, dear! Make yourself comfortable, Draco. Dinner won't be long now. D'you want a cup of tea?" Dad asks kindly as he shuffles off to help Mum.

"Yes please, Mr Greengrass. White, no sugar," Draco drawls.

I suddenly get the urge to laugh because he sounds so wonderfully out of place in our house – everything from his voice to his expensive clothes is at odds with our surroundings.

I am deeply grateful to my dad for his courteousness.

Both of my parents are drawing room communists in their political beliefs which means they deeply disapprove of people like the Malfoys with their estate and their manor and their exorbitant wealth – not to mention their blood politics. Even though my parents are both purebloods I once had to endure a ten minute rant from Mum on the absurdity of demonizing Muggleborns.

"What about you, Astoria?" Dad asks. "You'll be wanting your fix, won't you?"

I'm a notorious tea drinker and general caffeine addict. Dad is clearly only asking me as a tease because the answer is always unequivocally, yes.

Dad levitates the tea in a moment later. For a little while Draco, Daphne, Martha and I sit in the living room chatting about the news, the weather and what Daphne's doing at work. Draco sips tea from one of Mum's favorite green Denby mugs and he relaxes when they begin to reminisce about their schooldays.

It's quite fun listening to him tell stories about his famous enmity with a young Harry Potter. He tells this great little tale about how he challenged Potter to a wizard's duel in the first week of their first term at Hogwarts when neither of them could cast any spells at all!

"Can someone set the table and get drinks and can someone give me a hand in here?" Mum calls, forcing us into action.

There's a flurry of activity as the roast chicken is transported from the kitchen into the dining room along with the accompanying veg. Drinks are poured, silverware is dug out of the drawer and everyone sits down at the table. I park myself on the corner between Draco and Mum, who sits at the head of the table as a tactical move so she doesn't have to get up if we need anything else from the kitchen.

The air is thick with the delicious smell of chicken and roast potatoes. Dad carves the meat as we all pass dishes of steamed carrots, green beans, honey roasted parsnips and roast potatoes around. Martha fetches the gravy, which had been forgotten and then the stuffing, also momentarily neglected.

"Has everyone got everything? Have we all got our forks and wands and other extremities?" Mum asks genially as we finally settle down to eat.

The food is great. I love coming home for Sunday Roasts it's very comforting and nostalgic, especially this time of year when the weather is getting cooler and the trees are beginning to turn brown.

"How're things at work, Dad?" I ask between mouthfuls. "Working on anything interesting?"

Dad works for the Charms Committee testing out and developing all kinds of new spells. He says his job is mostly tinkering and playing puzzles but he's actually done a lot of specialized work in making sure magical artifacts work the way they should. In his spare time he likes fixing things like sneakoscopes. When I was a kid there were always several broomsticks in the shed in various states of being stripped down and repaired.

"As a matter of fact, yes," Dad says readily. "We've been commissioned to work on some nifty little enchantments by the art dealers _Zeller & Wilkes_. You know, age resistant paints and dirt repelling spells, that kind of thing. It makes a change from the dull Ministry projects we usually have. And I must say, Draco, it's good to see your mum's publishing again."

Everyone stops eating and looks at Draco for a beat.

"Thank you, Sir. I'll be sure to tell her," he says quietly, his cheeks pinking up.

"She's a well respected magical theologian when it comes to jinxes," Dad explains because of the blank look on my face. "Very accessible writing style, which is unusual in an essayist. You might like what she has to say, Astoria."

I smile tightly, not sure why I'm as embarrassed as I am by his words. I did go through a stage as a sulky teenager when I was particularly infamous for jinxing my bedroom door knob which kept giving unwelcome intruders a fright.

"Oh, Mum, Narcissa Malfoy asked after you when I met her. She err was happy to know you're still doing neuro research."

"Is that so?" Mum says in tones of great surprise. "Daphne, what's your newest research proposal?"

I catch Mum thoughtfully regard Draco, who has his head determinedly bowed.

I look at her with utmost curiosity but because of patient confidentiality and for her own reasons she won't say anything. She gives me a pointed look and I return to eating. I get the distinct impression she's shielded Draco from something, perhaps further scrutiny, but I can't be sure. She's very attentive towards him and makes sure he gets second servings of the coveted roasties.

After dinner we have blackberry crumble with custard for dessert, then Draco, Dad and I practically roll ourselves into the 'library'.

It's not a proper library but we call it that. It's a tiny room at the front of our house that Dad has lovingly lined with books from floor to ceiling. There are a couple of armchairs and a table where Dad's broken artifacts await fixing.

"Anyone want Port?" Dad asks, as I settle myself in the armchair by the window.

"Yes please," Draco and I say at the same time. We share a smile.

Dad busies himself with pouring drinks and Draco wanders over to the table, drawn by the scattered contents on display. The most prominent things are a clock with several hands, a lopsided set of scales and a little silver box.

"That belonged to my Great-Grandma Violetta," I tell Draco as he fingers the box curiously. "It's a music box. Dad's been trying to fix it for ages. It stopped playing a while ago."

A deep frown furrows his brow.

"May I?" he asks Dad, before picking up the box which is no bigger than a deck of cards.

"Certainly," Dad says, handing me my port and moving to stand beside Draco, who has taken out his wand and is tapping the heavily engraved silver box.

"I don't think it's a music box," Draco mutters, turning it over in his hands. "It looks like one but it's actually a Legilimens Box. It's much prettier than the ones you normally see. I think I might know how to fix it."

He looks up at Dad, whose interest has clearly been piqued.

"What's a Legilimens Box?" I ask bemused and disappointed my old music box might not get fixed in the way I thought.

"They're not very common," Dad explains. "They were only fashionable for a short period of time, about 150 years ago. Apparently they could help the owner read people's minds. There's a little mirror behind the ballerina inside your box, it would have worked as some kind of screen or conduit, I imagine."

"But why would someone have needed a Legilimens Box? Couldn't they just have used a truth spell or Veritiserum if they wanted to know what someone was thinking?" I ask.

"The box is more subtle than that, Astoria! You could put it on a shelf or on a parlor table and perhaps even read minds without your guests knowing!" Dad points out, tickled by this possibility.

"Ugh, I'd hate to be able to do that. You'd know all the horrible stuff people were thinking about you," I say, pulling an unpleasant face.

While we've been talking Draco has silently been casting a series of spells so that all of a sudden the box glows phosphorescent blue and springs open. It begins to chime and the ballerina within starts turning just like it used to.

"Hurray!" Dad exclaims dustily. "Well done, Draco. That was a smart bit of magic. I'm surprised you even knew to think it was a Legilimens Box. It hadn't crossed my mind at all."

Dad happily rocks back on the balls of his feet, giving Draco a deeply approving look.

I notice Draco lights up at this praise. He seems to struggle for a moment in comprehending how to manage such high regard, then puffs out proudly.

"Yes, well, there are all manner of odd things in my family's home," he says self-consciously, "there's always something that needs fixing. I've gotten reasonably good at knowing what to look for with stuff like this. I still think you need to be careful with this. It doesn't seem trustworthy."

He glances at me and there's sweet concern shining out at me as he closes the box. I'm very impressed with his spellwork and his knowledge. It's so nice that he's getting along with my Dad!

The two of them stand side by side and look over the other items for a little while before Dad retreats to help Mum with the washing up.

"See, not scary," I say to him when we're alone.

Draco comes over and sits on the arm of my chair. Now that we're alone I feel pleased to have him all to myself. I lay my hand on his thigh, which is strong and warm under my palm. I breathe in his clean, cottony scent and start to feel that hot, melting sensation in my lap.

"Your family are really nice," Draco says sheepishly, looking down at me. "I wasn't expecting them to be so good to me. It's… a lot to take in."

I smile up at him. I finally understand why he's been so quiet; he's been overwhelmed! I was starting to wonder if he was bored and regretting coming.

"They need a firm hand, that's all," I say, leaning into the warm energy of his body. "Mum will try to load you down with leftovers. Consider yourself officially warned."

"You're really lucky," he says, as my parents' laughter drifts in to us from the kitchen. "Your parents seem to really love you."

He strokes a finger along my jaw and I thrill at the contact. I feel it fizzle through me like static. My whole body becomes super sensitized and I really want to kiss him.

"Your parents love you, don't they?"

Draco has turned wistful and sad, which is the last thing I wanted to do by bringing him here.

"Yeah, they do," he says quietly, "but not like this."

"Not like what?" I ask tremulously.

Draco doesn't seem to have the words. He looks like a lost puppy and I feel my heart cracking like thin ice.

"They aren't good with…" He sighs. "They both had weird upbringings, weird lives… I'm only starting to understand. You know how when you're a child you think your parents are invincible, god-like?"

I nod, but in all honesty, I never felt like that. My parents have always seemed fallible. Maybe it was because they admitted their mistakes and their weaknesses to me and Daphne. I can't imagine cool, aloof Narcissa Malfoy acting the same way.

"I thought my parents were right, you know? I trusted them and everything they said. And then…" Draco turns ashen and swallows hard, like he's trying not throw up.

I stroke his leg gently, slowly, like I'm stroking a cat. I want him to continue but at the same time I'm afraid - I'm afraid of him telling me all the things I've heard about his family are true.

"What do you do when you realize your whole life has been a lie?" he asks bitterly.

A sad longing comes over me as I look up at him. He looks so pure and perfect with his white skin, golden hair and angular good looks but so tragically forlorn. He could be the statue of an angel. A fallen angel, my mind whispers cruelly, recalling Pansy's warning words.

His eyes seek mine and I wish there was something I could do to make him see that I don't think he's as ruined as he thinks he is.

"You could start again," I whisper.

I rest my head on his leg so I don't have to look into his grieving face. He deserves that much from me.

I hear him breathing hard and I wonder if it's anger or sadness that's pushing up his pulse rate.

I feel his feather-light fingertips caress my cheek, upturning my face towards him. He leans down and kisses me hard on the mouth.

He kisses me like he needs me. I've never felt needed before in my life.

I try to soothe him with my lips and my hands but it's not enough. Draco kisses me as if he's trying to get through me, like my body is a cage and it's my soul he's trying to get at. If I could melt my bones to let him get to what he needs then I would. I would open my chest and give him my heart if that was the way to heal his pain.

It doesn't occur to me at the time that this is what love is.


	8. Chapter 8

**Title:** Dance with the Devil  
**Author Name:** Shy Unicorn  
**Rating:**M  
**Genre:** Romance/Friendship  
**Main Character(s):** Astoria Greengrass and Draco Malfoy  
**Ship(s):** Astoria/Draco, Lucius/Narcissa, Narcissa/OC, Lucius/OC  
**Summary:** Four years after Voldemort is vanquished Astoria Greengrass starts working for 'Witch Weekly' magazine as a feature writer. Her very first job is to interview Draco Malfoy who has just made his first million galleons without the aid of his rich parents. What happens when they meet?  
**Author's Note (A/N):**Hi guys, just a little forewarning this chapter is rated M, probably bordering on MA because it gets pretty hot and heavy. I hope you enjoy.

**Dance with the Devil**

**Chapter Eight: Wily Priory**

It's Friday night and I appear with a pop on the edge of a scrubby, wooded area. I check the co-ordinates scrawled on the back of my hand in green ink and look around. I'm on the crest of a small, undulating hill with a view down the bank to a line of elm trees standing to attention in the cool evening chill. Breaking their ranks is a two storey grey stone building that looks like a Tudor parish church. It has a gothic roof, pointed gableheads, and a tall arched doorway. In short, it's exactly the place you'd expect to find a Malfoy.

All week Draco and I have been sending owls back and forth. I've learned he's no great wordsmith but it hardly seems to matter. He's invited me for dinner at his place and I'm quaking with anticipation as I skip down the hillside. The air smells rich and wet with the woody, earthy scent of the countryside. It reminds me a little of home and I fill my lungs deeply with the invigorating aroma.

As I get closer to the house I see diamond paned windows and a high, impenetrable wall that separates the back of the house from the outside world like a dam. I wonder sardonically if it's to keep people from getting out or to stop the muggles getting in. The huge wooden front door has a silver knocker shaped like a howling face. I hope this came with the house and isn't Draco's idea of welcoming decoration.

I knock hard and step back. It's then I notice an inscription above the door reads 'Wily Priory' and I wonder why and how the Malfoys acquired a church.

I don't have long to wonder because Draco opens the door and my brain is suddenly incapable of deep thought. He's dressed much more casually than I've ever seen him, his hair is wet and his cheeks are port pink like he's just got out of the bath.

"Hi," I breathe, unable to even pretend I'm not checking him out.

"You're right on time, as always," he remarks, holding the door open wider to admit me.

Draco smells amazing, clean and cool, and I can feel the residual heat coming off him as I pass under his outstretched arm.

"You gave good directions. I wasn't sure how easy it was going to be to find you," I say, stepping into a cold, stone hall.

Directly in front of me is an ornately carved wooden staircase that looks very old, maybe even Elizabethan. There's a painting on the wall of a green landscape that I think might be of somewhere close by.

"It's one of the reasons I chose to come down here," Draco tells me, leading me into a room on the left. "And the name," he adds with a smirk.

"The name?"

I follow him through into a cavernous F shaped parlor. To me it seems very grand but I imagine Draco finds it comfortable. The walls and floor are paneled with light cherry wood and hung with paintings, antlers and dark green tapestries with a gold vine design. A series of golden candelabras hang from the ceiling to stave off the dark.

"When I was little me and - " he breaks off abruptly, frowns and starts again. "As a child I used to think this place was called '_Willy_ Priory' which I thought was brilliantly funny. No one lived here back then, but when Father and I walked by I'd always look in. I don't know what I expected to see, the ghosts of naked monks, I suppose. When I decided to leave home I remembered this place and here I am."

"Willy Priory! You're such a _boy_," I say grinning and sitting down beside him on a low twill couch in one of the alcoves. "I saw the house from the top of the hill and it seemed appropriate for you."

"Appropriate how?" Draco asks warmly. "Do you want tea?"

"Yes, please. I just saw it and thought of you. It's fortified and a little gothic but very beautiful, if you don't let the history scare you off."

"That's a fair assessment," he says with obvious pleasure while summoning the tea set with a flick of his wand.

He produces hot water from his wand to fill the teapot. I sneak another look around, there's so much to see! There's fine glassware, china, old leather-bound books and antique vases everywhere as common as dust.

On a sideboard nearby there's a photograph of three sisters all in middle childhood wearing white dresses rushing through a bluebell wood. The youngest has straight blonde hair and I think it might be Narcissa. Beside that is a small picture of two little blond boys peeping out from beneath a giant fir Christmas tree. Either one of them could be Draco or a more distant male Malfoy, they all look astonishingly similar.

"So, you like the place?" Draco asks, a hint of self-consciousness in his question.

"I really like it. It makes a nice change from mildew and a sink full of washing-up."

"Mildew? When I first moved in here there were so many doxies you couldn't move for eggs and grease. I don't think it'd been lived in for hundreds of years. I've made a lot of changes," he brags.

"How many houses do your family own?" I inquire wryly, taking the tea Draco offers me.

"I'm not entirely sure," he admits and I baulk. "It depends what you count. There are a couple of croft houses, a farm and a several acres of farmland that we own but are rented to tenants. There's the Big House, Malfoy Mews, the Lodge, this place and the Gamekeeper's cottage."

He counts it all off on his fingers, straining to remember everything as he does so.

"Oh, there's the summer cottage and Father's London apartment."

"So, basically your family owns half the magical dwellings in the south of England…"

Draco has the good sense to look embarrassed.

I'd be lying if I wasn't massively intimidated by the sheer magnitude of his wealth. I knew he was rich, I just didn't realize quite how indentured he was.

"There was more," he protests, "but after the war Father sold some of it for quick cash."

I burst out laughing.

His attempt at down-playing his ridiculous wealth just makes his world even stranger and more divorced from mine. My parents' house, which I've always thought of as reasonably big, must have looked like servants apartments to him!

"I'm sorry," I tell him, because he looks discomfited. "I'm not laughing at you. I was just naïve about how rich your family is."

"Oh," he says quietly, looking down into his tea. "I suppose it is a lot of property these days. About three hundred years ago there were a lot more of us, so, it made more sense."

"What happened?" I ask hesitantly.

"Birth control," Draco says ruefully and I laugh again, this time he smiles too.

"I was worried it was going to be something sad like disease or war or something," I say unable to hide my relief.

"No. My Great-Great-something-Grandfather decided that one heir was probably enough and everyone after him thought '_what a good idea'_ almost certainly because it meant keeping the wealth in the family."

"And if there's one thing you Malfoys like, it's definitely gold," I chime.

"That's very true," Draco agrees, not looking at all offended.

"Wasn't it lonely being an only child?"

Daphne and I used to fight and disagree and get sick to death of each other during Hogwarts summer holidays but we've always loved each other. I find it hard to imagine a world without her, or a childhood without a constant companion.

"I didn't mind it," Draco says, which surprises me. "I can be really selfish. I got a double helping of it; both my parents are the same way."

After saying this he watches me carefully, and I know he's worried that he's said too much or the wrong thing.

"What you're saying is you're going to be insanely jealous any time I speak to another boy in your presence, aren't you?" I venture.

"No! Not at all," Draco says hurriedly.

For some reason I actually feel disappointed, but then I realize he's not saying he doesn't care about me. He's just saying he's not going to be clingy and that's definitely a good thing. I think of Xenia and Marcus, who are always glued to each other when they're together. I definitely don't want to be one of those couples!

"Are you hungry?"

"I could eat something about now," I say easily.

"Shall we go through to the dining room?"

I let Draco lead me back the way we came and into the room on the other side of the hallway. The dining room has a low roof, which makes me think there's no upper floor on the right side of the house to account for the parlor's high ceiling. Of course, this is a magical dwelling, so I might be wrong.

A huge fireplace is full of dancing orange flames and there's little more in this room than a very solid table big enough to seat ten. Above the fireplace is a large gilt mirror that reflects the tapestry covered walls. I feel very cloistered in here, like I could have a comfortable conversation and relax.

The table is set for two, the places opposite one another in the middle of the table which is directly in front of the fire. Draco motions for me to sit in the warmest spot and I don't protest because the house is chilly. He goes over to a brass gong and gives it a surreptitious tap with his wand. A low, baritone note sounds and food appears on the empty plates. It's a neat trick.

I don't know whether he's cooked or if there's a House-Elf hiding somewhere but the food looks good. It's salad, boiled potatoes, steamed salmon and some kind of fish sauce. There's also crusty bread rolls, butter and a little jug of salad dressing.

"This is very civilized," I say pleasantly, tucking in.

"We could make it more civilized, do you want some wine?"

"I'm not a big drinker," I admit when I've finished my first mouthful.

"That's a relief, but you'll have to at least try some of this," Draco remarks. He uncaps a bottle of white wine and pours us each a glass.

To me it seems very grown-up, maybe even a little pompous to be Draco's age and to know something about wine. However, when I curiously sip what he's offered me I quickly change my mind. Even to my unsophisticated pallet it tastes delicious.

"Draco, this is so nice," I say earnestly, meaning everything not just the food.

"I'm glad to have you here."

There's a softness in his face as he says this that melts my heart. A second later it's gone and he looks just the same as ever. For a little while we eat in silence and then I remember I have some news and something I want to ask him.

"I um, I got the go ahead to take on the events column."

"That's good. I know how much you wanted it," he says proudly.

I feel intensely pleased. The fact that he seems to really appreciate my success means so much to me – almost as much as the achievement itself.

"Now that I've got my own column it means I actually have to go to some of the events I'll be covering."

I watch him carefully to see if he can get where I'm going with this. He's either playing coy with me or being completely oblivious because he keeps on eating.

"There's a party next week for the start of the Quidditch season. It's being held at the Wigtown Wanderer's Quidditch ground. I've got two tickets and I – well, I wondered if you'd want to go with me?"

I don't know why it's so hard to get the words out but I managed it. I sit and watch him anxiously.

Is this too much too soon? It's going to be a highly publicized event in the Quidditch community and the _Daily Prophet_ will cover it heavily. If he goes with me it pretty much makes us an official couple in a very public way – and I know publicity is not something he's fond of.

He puts down his knife and fork and gives me his full attention.

"Are you asking me on a _date,_ Astoria Greengrass?" he says in tones of deepest smugness.

An adorable smirk splashes over his face and his eyes glitter in the firelight. He is so beautiful when he smiles I want to jump over the table and kiss that sly mouth of his.

"You're not going to go all old fashioned on me are you and say it only counts when a wizard asks a witch?" I say lightly, but I'm worried he's going to turn me down.

"I'll do you a deal," he says smoothly. "You sign my Secrecy Agreement and I'll come with you to the Quidditch party."

Oh. We're back to this again. He's a shrewd little git when he wants to be.

"Draco…" I shake my head and push back from the table.

I thought we'd already dealt with this subject. I look across at him and he's still smug around the edges. All the humor that was in me and all the bittersweet anxiousness has turned to irritation in a flash.

"This isn't funny," I snap. "I've only asked you to a party, you're asking me to sign my soul away."

"Astoria, I'm not asking you to do _that_," Draco retorts, and I think I've hit a nerve. "I'm asking you to show me you're willing to protect everyone who's important to me – that's what the Agreement is about!"

I open my mouth to protest, but he's not finished.

"There are a lot of people out there, even the so called 'good' ones like Harry Potter, who would love to see me and my family suffer a bit more than we already have. I need you to sign that agreement. I can't risk - I'm trying and you're – you just want me to go to some stupid party with you!" His voice rises and he gives me a contemptuous look.

"I want you to trust me! Why is that so hard for you?" I cry, exasperatedly.

"I do trust you! You're here, aren't you?" he sneers. "Do you know how many of my _friends_ have seen the inside of this place?"

I shake my head. Blood is pounding in my ears and I feel adrenalin whizzing through my veins.

"_One,_" Draco hisses. "I don't feel comfortable with people knowing where I live because that didn't work out too well for me last time round. You Know Who and his cronies moved in and – _fuck!_"

His voice cracks. He leaps up and punches the wall.

When he turns back around his mouth is clamped shut like he's trying swallow a mouthful of bile.

I'm dumbstruck.

"I tried to warn you. I've done and seen things – I'm not a good person! I've got plenty of secrets that would destroy my reputation if they got out."

He seems righteous in his anger and I can see it's cathartic, like it's been inside of him for a while now just waiting to get out.

"I can't leave it chance. Please, just sign the damn Secrecy Agreement so I can stop worrying. I like you too much already! I bet you won't want anything to do with me when you know. I just – please sign it!"

He seems to run out of energy at this point and I don't blame him. He slides back into his chair, his anger spent.

His eyes implore me to give him what he wants and all my resolve has gone. I feel as contrite as a disciplined child.

"Okay," I whisper. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize… of course I'll sign it."

There's a long pause and I stare down at my hands, which are balled in my lap.

Eventually I force myself to look up. Draco is very white as he sits watching me. I think he's the one who's most afraid of what happens next. I hate fighting. I feel horribly uncomfortable and emotional. I'm trembling all over. I didn't realize the purpose of the Secrecy Agreement was to protect rather than evade.

"I'll sign it now if you want."

Draco's mouth is a thin line. He walks slowly, like a sleepwalker out of the room.

I cover my eyes with my hands and sigh heavily. I think I might cry. I didn't know coming here was such a big deal. I feel like I've been so feckless and stupid. I find myself wishing I'd listened to Pansy Parkinson a bit more carefully. She warned me that Draco has issues and I just ignored her and treated him like everybody else I know.

I can't believe I managed to provoke him like that. I feel sick to my stomach when I realize I might have really upset him. He also sounded like once I'd signed the agreement things could be over between the two of us. I really don't want another Zach Smith situation on my hands. Not this time, and definitely not with Draco. I want to keep seeing him. I don't want things to end now and certainly not like this!

Draco comes back into the room carrying the Secrecy Agreement and a quill. He sets it down beside my forgotten plate of food with stiff limbs like a wooden child's toy. He too seems uncomfortable with what just happened and unsure how to react to my acquiescence.

I pick up the quill, unroll the parchment and sign without re-reading.

"I'm sorry," I mumble and my eyes prick with tears. "I didn't mean to upset you. I didn't – I'm - "

Knowing he's angry with me and the fact I've been thoughtless makes me utterly miserable. My tears are hot and splash heavily down my face. I'm humiliated by them but I can't seem to stop myself.

I brush them away quickly, hoping that they'll stop coming if I can just get them off my face but it doesn't work.

"Let's… let's go back through to the drawing room," Draco says, shaken by my tears.

"I'm sorry," I apologize, still crying. "I – please don't be mad at me."

"I'm not mad," he says with surprising gentility.

He takes me by the hand as if I'm either a very old person or a very young child and guides me back to the parlor.

"I like you, Astoria. I like you a lot, that's the problem."

"I didn't mean to be selfish. I didn't know about – about You Know Who and – not for sure – I didn't want to believe it. I'm sorry."

"Please stop apologizing," Draco grumbles. "You weren't being selfish, you just didn't know about me. That's… oddly refreshing. I'm sorry for blowing up. I hope I didn't scare you."

He guides me to the sofa and hands me a tissue. I wipe my eyes and blow my nose. Eventually I get my breathing under control and manage to stop the tears coming. I feel like such a fool but confrontations frighten me. I can't stand people I care about thinking badly of me. At my core I want to please people and arguments are the antithesis of that so they freak me out an inordinate amount.

Draco peers at me trying to gauge if I'm alright now. I feel a lot better knowing he doesn't hate me.

"Are you okay?"

"I think so," I whisper and give him a tiny, shaky smile.

He's sitting so close our legs press together; I welcome that sliver of physical contact. Everything about him is comforting to me now that the argument seems to have passed. I revel in the scent of him and in the smooth planes of his calm face.

"Astoria, the thing is… my father wasn't the only Death Eater in our family. I was too."

This revelation cleaves through me like a lightening bolt splitting an oak tree.

I had wondered about Draco. I just didn't want to admit to myself that my mind had gone to that dark place. I knew that Draco's father had been a Death Eater, that's common knowledge. I sort of knew that You Know Who had lived in Draco's home but I hadn't wanted to think too deeply about it. I didn't want this horrible truth to be real.

My mind races as I let this information sink in.

I feel like Eve after she's bitten the apple of knowledge. Knowing Draco was a Death Eater changes my thoughts but in a distant, far off sort of way, like constellations changing with the seasons.

The Draco who's sitting beside me is still the same one who was there a moment before. Knowing that he was one of You Know Who's followers doesn't transfigure him into an Acromantula or a Werewolf.

"Did you ever kill anyone?" I ask in a fearfully small voice.

"Not directly," he says and looks almost ashamed.

"Did you torture anyone?"

"Yes."

I suck in a sharp breath.

"Astoria, I had to. I didn't want to. I didn't want any of it-"

"- It was a war, Draco. I understand," I say quietly.

I don't understand, not really. I understand doing what you have to do to stay alive. That I can fathom. That's what being at war _is_.

What I don't understand are all the small ways being in a war can break a person and that's what scares me. I don't think I want to hear anymore just now.

Looking at Draco with the knowledge that he was a Death Eater means knowing that he is cracked and damaged in ways eyes can't see. Maybe that's what Pansy meant when she said Draco was fucked up.

I think on this for a moment and then decide I don't blame him for being fucked up. I'd be a total walking disaster if You Know Who and all his followers had moved into my house and done God knows what in front of me and made me torture people!

"You're amazing," I say at last.

Draco blinks at me in dazed surprise.

"You know that, don't you?" I tell him. When he still looks stunned I keep holding his gaze. "You're amazing because people who go through what you went through don't become successful people. The fact that you're walking around and living your life is proof you're strong – but the fact you're making something of yourself!? That's unheard of."

His pale face flushes and his grey eyes disbelievingly search my face.

"You mean that?"

"Yes."

"You're incredible too," he rasps, his voice as rough as gravel.

I shake my head and cup his cheek.

"Not like you are."

I see the wonderment in his face, see him fighting back his softer side and I feel this powerful wave of love for him. I lean in to close the space between us and kiss him carefully on the lips. He's hot and he tastes sharp like the wine we were drinking earlier.

Draco looks out at me through his pale grey eyes and I know he's struggling under the weight of my acceptance. My reaction clearly wasn't one he'd been anticipating.

I lie back on the couch, pulling him down with me and refuse to stop kissing him. A rush of emotion goes through me as clean and restorative as a blood transfusion. He captures my lips between his and I feel the desperate gratitude pouring out of him. I like the determination of his lips against mine, the way his body presses heavily against me.

Our tongues stroke together and our hot, mingled breaths condense on my eyelashes. I slide my fingers through Draco's glossy hair, loving the sleek coolness and the way it feels like another caress. I can feel blood pumping through my veins. It drums in my ears, in my throat, between my legs.

My skin is abuzz, so that when Draco's lips leave mine and trail down my neck I gasp at the hot chill that goes through me. My hands clutch at his robes and I arch into the warm, suppleness of his body craving more. His breathing is labored and I feel his heart beating in his chest as he presses against me. The wet brush of his tongue along my collar bone makes my breath catch in my throat. When he cups one of my breasts and explores the soft contours the sensation is so intense I quiver and writhe in ecstasy.

I can't speak or moan or make any sound at all to tell him how amazing this all feels. He's bombarding all my senses sending them into overdrive. I tilt his head up and kiss him encouragingly. I feel like I'm chocolate melting in the sun. That pulse point between my legs is impossible to ignore.

Draco reads my body better than I can because as soon as I think this I feel his smooth, cool hand on my stomach. He's worked his way beneath my dress and I've never let a boy touch me like this before. His fingers dip into my panties and I grip his upper arms in rigid anticipation. As he looks at me his eyes are huge and unfocused like a cat looking into a fire.

I've never wanted anyone to touch me like this. I never dreamed it would feel so good. An involuntary sigh tumbles out of my mouth. I can't quite believe I'm letting him touch me like this, letting him see me like this. I feel so vulnerable but the way Draco is watching me as he teases me with his dexterous hands. The wonderment in his eyes makes me finally feel ready to do this.

I smile shyly up at him and bite my lip. God, that feels so incredibly good! I can't find my voice to tell him though. He's rendered my completely speechless. I cup his lovely head and draw him down for another deep kiss, drinking him up like Butterbeer.

He eases his tongue into my mouth, mirroring the action of his fingers and my eyes roll back in my head. The feeling of purpose and pressure against my skin is insanely good. I hold Draco tightly as he works my body, winding me up like a tightening guitar string.

I push against him wanting more. I'm blind and mindless, completely smothered by an intense pleasure I've never known and yet I know in some base, instinctive way that it can still get better and I want that. I want it more than I've ever wanted anything else before. That greedy need consumes me and I suddenly don't care what I look or sound like.

As I come I feel like a plucked string. I cry out in tense delight as my body shakes and quakes and I resound with joy from the tips of my toes to the depths of my soul.

"God, you are so beautiful," Draco whispers against my ear and I can hear his smile in his voice.

He continues stroking me with insistent fingers. I laugh and bite my lip at the sizzling after shocks that continue to rock my body.

"Stop!" I squeal at last, clamping my thighs together around his hand.

I am unimaginably happy and fatigued. I'm a gooey, puddle of a girl on his couch. I stare up at Draco's flushed face with lust drugged, satiated eyes and smile rakishly.

"I already told you that you're amazing, now you're just showing off!"

Draco smiles smugly and plants a lingering kiss on my sweetly sore lips.

I have fallen for him harder than a cauldron tossed from a second storey window – and in that moment I don't have the sense to care.


	9. Chapter 9

**Title:** Dance with the Devil  
**Author Name:** Shy Unicorn  
**Rating:**M  
**Genre:** Romance/Friendship  
**Main Character(s):** Astoria Greengrass and Draco Malfoy  
**Ship(s):** Astoria/Draco, Lucius/Narcissa, Narcissa/OC, Lucius/OC  
**Summary:** Four years after Voldemort is vanquished Astoria Greengrass starts working for 'Witch Weekly' magazine as a feature writer. Her very first job is to interview Draco Malfoy who has just made his first million galleons without the aid of his rich parents. What happens when they meet?  
**Author's Note (A/N):**Thanks to everyone who has favorited, reviewed and followed. I hope you like this chapter, you make all the effort worth it. Thanks for your support, I've really needed it this past week.

**Dance with the Devil**

**Chapter Nine: A Night At the Fair**

Music is blaring from my record player as I add the final touches to my outfit. Draco is due to pick me up in a couple of minutes.

The Quidditch Mixer tonight is going to be a total media circus. There will be hundreds of celebrities there and delegates from every newspaper and fanzine imaginable. It's so crazy to me that I'm going to be there amongst them. I've never been to a party this showy before and I'm excited at the prospect of going with Draco.

Since dinner at his place and the revelations that followed our relationship has developed. On one hand it feels like things are more lighthearted, Draco seems more comfortable around me with every passing lunch date. On the other hand because we're emotionally and physically closer than ever before that adds depth and an unexpected seriousness to our relationship. I like it though. Except for when I catch myself looking at Draco and wondering who he tortured and why, and what horrible family secrets he hides behind his façade of control.

When I'd pushed to take over the events column attending extravagant parties isn't what I'd envisioned. I'd taken it on as a writing project, and if I'm honest as a way to help out Pace and all my other friends who are doing cool underground art projects that could do with some more publicity.

As I realize what a social whirlwind it's going to be tonight my stomach begins to churn. Under all my make-up I feel myself turn green. There are going to be lots of people there. There are going to be big crowds.

I glance at the top drawer of my dresser. There's a pouch of Sneezewort in there. I could take some and it would take away my anxiety. It would also potentially make me strung out and that's not ideal.

I start putting on my lipstick and notice my hand is unsteady. My heart is racing. When I lay my hands out in front of me they're trembling. My stomach knots itself into a tight ball and cramps up. My nerves begin to fray at the thought of being in a big crowd. I can't get my breathing under control to slow my heart palpitations. I think I'm either going to throw up or pass out. 

I sit down on my bed and try to calm myself but I've let it go too far. I know, rationally, that I'm in my bedroom. I smooth my hands over my lilac bedspread and look at my beaten up Barney the fruit-bat stuffed toy. I look at my dresser and all the debris of girlhood scattered there but I can't quite convince myself this is real or put a cap on my nausea.

I can't do this tonight. I can't let my anxiety get the better of me. Every time I get into a big crowd fear overwhelms me and I can't cope. I can't do that tonight. I don't want to miss out on another amazing date with Draco.

_Fuck it._

I cross the room in three steps and yank open the draw. I tap the newly fixed Legilimens Box with my wand making it spring open. Inside is my Mokeskin pouch and the remains of my summer Sneezewort stash. I dig out a pinch and take it gracelessly as there's a knock on the front door.

I flick off my record player with a wave of my wand and check my reflection in my wall mirror. I look elegant, grown-up, almost unrecognizable in my new dress robes and my dramatic make-up.

I sneeze hard as I answer the door.

"Bless you," Draco says, stepping into the hall. "You look..._hot_."

"Thanks," I say dabbing at my eyes, trying not to smudge my make-up. "I guess we have that in common."

He's looking delectable in expensive satiny charcoal grey robes that are classic but flattering. Draco's fair hair is pushed back to one side making him look older and somehow more sophisticated than usual. It makes all of his features sharper and more patrician. I like the way his expression mirrors mine. He can't seem to get enough of looking at me.

Seeing the stunned awe and wide-eyed approval on his face makes all my primping and preening worth it. I feel fizzy and special like a glass of champagne.

Draco slips his hands around my waist and pulls me into a deep kiss. A wave of warmth and comfort washes over me and I think the Sneezewort has begin to work its anesthetic magic.

"Wow, your pupils are huge," Draco murmurs, a look of satisfaction tugs at the sharp corners of his lips.

He thinks I'm turned on, not stoned!

I'd like it to stay that way. I don't know how he'll react if he finds out about my recreational habit. I don't think he'll understand. He can control everything.

"Shall we go?" I say as I rub my lipstick from his mouth.

"Don't forget you bag," he reminds me.

I go collect it from my room and poke my head into the living room to say bye to Pace and Xenia. They're playing a card game and listening to the news on the wireless box.

"Have fun, Cinderella," Pace grins.

"Get Blythe Parkin's autograph for me. I don't care if it's in eyeliner or lipstick. If you see her – get it!" Xenia demands.

"Okay. Got it. Goodnight," I say, feeling another sneeze come on.

I sneeze hard as I close the front door behind me and Draco. I feel an unusual amount of relief wash over me as we make our way down to the apple tree.

"Did your meeting go okay today?" I ask Draco, as we step out into the fresh evening air.

"Which one? My life is a lot of meetings," Draco admits. "The one at Gringotts with two crotchety Goblins went well. The one with the crotchety toothless farmers went better."

"What odd company you keep," I tease.

"It's been odder," Draco assures me.

His tone is light but I can't help wonder if he means from back when he was a Death Eater. This turn of my mind has been happening with growing frequency since I found out about Draco's past. I try to push it out of my thoughts entirely.

As we're about to Apparate I look at Draco in the moonlight and he seems unnaturally beautiful, like starlight made human.

"I'm so glad we're going to this party together."

"I'm glad you asked me."

He tucks several strands of my hair behind my ear and his fingers are so gentle and sweet against my cheek. All around us the night chirps and rustles. Everywhere smells like grass and honeysuckle.

He takes me by the hand and his touch is tender as we twirl together through the night.

We appear at the Wigtown Wanderers' Quidditch ground and I get the most incredible head-rush. I fling my hand out and grab Draco's forearm as little starry lights pop in front of my eyes.

"I've got you. Are you okay?"

His hands are firm as he rights me and it reminds me of when we last made-out on his couch. A fierce blush burns my cheeks and I'm embarrassed at the way muscles deep inside me contract longingly at the fiery memory.

"I'm alright," I say, flustered. "Oh, wow!"

There's a carnival atmosphere in the mild night air. The sky is intermittently lit up with fireworks that burst and bloom overhead. Not far from us there's a purple carpet leading up to an enormous red and yellow silk circus tent. Witches and wizards are crowding around, bellowing Quidditch chants and hoping to get the autograph of their favorite players.

Flash bulbs pop and wink as all manner of celebrities pose for pictures. Ahead of us the crowd is going wild for Harry Potter and his wife, the Quidditch sensation Ginny Weasley.

"Damn. I forgot _he'd_ be here," Draco mutters, his eyes narrowed at Harry Potter.

"I thought you'd gotten over your rivalry with him."

"Yeah, well… He's still a swaggering show-off."

"You're so cute when you're snarky," I giggle, taking Draco's hand.

He turns from glaring at Potter to give me a bemused look. I try to smother my over enthusiastic outburst with an impassive face. I can't afford to get found out. I don't want to spoil the night by being a complete dope.

It's bizarre to have so many eyes on us as we walk the purple carpet. The photographers shout and holler at Draco and I, turning their blinding lenses on us. His hand presses against the small of my back, guiding and comforting me.

As the fireworks and camera winks brighten up his face I can't quite believe this is real or that this gorgeous wizard is my boyfriend. We hand over our tickets and are admitted into the party tent. It's like entering a fairground.

There's a huge Ferris wheel studded with bright lights taking passengers up to the ceiling and down again. All around are Coconut Shys and Ring Toss games. The air is full of the sound of accordions and Wurlitzers playing jaunty carnival songs. Overhead swarms of golden snitches and crackling, spangled firework Dragons from _Weasley's Wizard Wheezes_ skim the tallest reaches of the tent.

"Have you ever seen anything like this?" I gasp, unable to focus on one thing because it's all in constant motion.

"Not since Father took me to Monaco," Draco admits.

"Monaco? That sounds funny. Isn't Monaco a fun word to say? You say it."

"I suppose it is," Draco says regarding me uncertainly.

Crap. I'm acting stoned. I steer him into the maelstrom and try to compose myself.

We investigate everything.

We play rounds of Dragon Derby, Draco shows me his Ring Toss skills and wins me a stuffed toy, we laugh at how bad my aim is when we play at the Coconut Shy.

We share a fluffy pink cloud of cotton candy.

Almost everyone here is a celebrity in the wizarding world. If I was in a state to be star-struck I think I'd be unconscious. On our way to the make-shift bowling alley Draco and I pass Oliver Wood, the Puddlemere United Keeper, proudly wearing his Quidditch robes and brandishing his broomstick for a photograph with friends.

There's much merry-making and despite the glamour, there's a bawdy, raucous feeling in the air which makes me giddy. I bowl the worst game of Ten Pin Bowling in history but I'm not too bothered because the whole time Draco has his arms around my waist and laughs against my ear.

After my glorious defeat we get a drink of Butterbeer from a fountain surmounted by a statue of Devlin Whitehorn, the founder of Nimbus Brooms. As Draco scoops up a glass of wine from a second fountain Gregory Goyle, who plays for Ballycastle Bats and is one of Draco's school friends chats to us while we re-hydrate.

Draco and I stumble upon a dance floor hemmed by tables and chairs. Overhead bunting and wisteria vines create a canopy. I've got my arm around Draco's waist and I suddenly find the warmth and shape of his body fascinating. I press myself against him and bury my face into the neck of his robes so I can breathe him in.

"Is that your laundry potion or cologne?" I slur. "You always smell so good."

"Are you _drunk?_" Draco asks incredulously.

"Not drunk," I mumble, shaking my head. "I don't drink, remember? I had a teeny bit of Sneezewort, that's all."

"_Sneezewort?_" Draco's expression darkens, until he looks very angry. "And do you make it a habit of using drugs?" he asks coldly.

"No. Yes. Sort of. Writers are always drunks and druggies or crazies," I tell him laughingly, with a flailing wave of my hand. "You shouldn't be so surprised! It's what makes us creative, tortured geniuses. I'm going to be a creative, tortured genius one day, you know."

"That's a load of crap," Draco says abruptly. "Merlin, Astoria! Sit down before you fall down," he commands, plonking me down onto a chair.

"The composer Eldridge Edison was really mentally ill – a total crazy - but he wrote all these incredible pieces of music when he was manic," I protest, staring up at him.

I knew he'd be mad at me. He looks funny from this angle, I can see up his nose.

"His music was always good there's just more of it from when he was manic because he was, well, manic," Draco says exasperatedly.

I feel his cool hands cupping my flushed face, tilting my head so that he can see deep into my eyes. He puts two fingers to the side of my neck. It tickles until I realize he's trying to take my pulse.

"Besides, Edison wrote the best pieces of music when he was old and relatively healthy. So, actually his life shows that you get good at stuff by getting old – which you won't do if you die of a drug overdose."

I'm momentarily impressed by his knowledge of Edison. Then I realize he's disproved my point. I brush his busy hands away, stalling his medical assessment of me.

"But what about Quirinus Quince? He was a notorious drug fiend, all his writing is exquisite. He really thought on a different plane of existence," I say dizzily. "Drugs helped him get to the heart of wizarding existence. He wouldn't have been able to write '_Quintessence: A Quest'_ without drugs."

"Your researching methods are really awful, Astoria. It makes sense you're a journalist," Draco says sardonically.

He folds his arms across his chest and peers down at me. I think I've been insulted but I grin up at him.

"Quince was a heavy drug user but he never produced anything while he was high," Draco says plainly. "The sad thing is he'd probably have written a lot more if he hadn't been such a loser stoner. He was a deep thinker, that's what made him a good writer, not the drugs."

This boy has an answer for everything! He just keeps getting better and better, he's such a smarty pants! He likes me, he's gorgeous, he's a millionaire and now he's a genius too? This boy is too good to be true. Oh, wait, not perfect - he still comes with a freaky Death Eater past.

"What about Sinistra Lowe?" I fire at him, thinking I've got him with her name.

"What about Newt Scamander? Or Fifi LaFolle? They were relatively normal people. We get told that artists should be drunks or crazy and it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy," Draco says shortly. "We idolize the drunk and crazy ones but there are artists who are just as good, possibly even better, who don't get the time of day because they're normal."

"Yeah, but…but writers need to experience hardship and stuff to make their writing authentic," I say with more conviction than I feel.

"Or they could try using their imaginations and being observant," Draco retorts. "That might be more helpful than going out and mashing their brains with drugs."

He gives me a significant look.

My brain does feel a little mashed right now. I don't want to think anymore. I just want to look at Draco for a while. I like the way the eruptions of light in the background wash his pale face different colors.

"What you need is a moment of brilliance not a moment of manic depression or drug abuse, Astoria. Why did you take Sneezewort tonight of all nights?"

I can see he wants a good answer. I know he's right to be worried and upset about me doing drugs. Until I started doing Sneezewort regularly I'd always been strictly against them.

"I don't like crowds," I admit, toying with my robes. I sound so weak and pathetic. "They make me scared. It takes the edge off."

"You don't ever have to be scared when you're with me," he promises so quietly I almost don't hear it under the music.

"But you're a Dark Wizard," I say with a cocked eyebrow, looking up his skyscraper body.

"Is that what you think of me?"

"No – Draco! I was kidding," I say hastily because he looks genuinely hurt.

"Were you? Well, don't joke about that. It's not funny," he says in a harsh voice and I feel his fingers tense around my face. "Promise me you won't take drugs again. It's dangerous."

"I'm sorry. I needed it tonight."

"You don't _need_ it. Promise me you won't take drugs again," Draco says fiercely, using his hands to move my head in a nodding motion.

I smile up at him. That feels funny. I was expecting him to be much angrier. I'd be much angrier with me, if I was in a state to experience anything other than laid-back bliss.

"I promise. I didn't mean to spoil things."

"You haven't spoilt things. Come on, let's keep you hydrated. I thought you were bowling badly on purpose to let me win not because you couldn't aim straight!"

Draco and I get more drinks before heading out into onto the dance floor. He surprises me when he pulls out some swing dance moves, spinning me and throwing me up in the air like I'm as light as a feather. It's ridiculously fun. Draco begins to lighten up after a while until we're both laughing.

I've lost count how long we've been dancing when I notice a woman coming purposefully towards us. She's perhaps in her late thirties but she has a girlish wide-eyed prettiness and the figure of a cartoon pin-up. Her body looks ridiculously sensuous, as I look at her I just want to reach out and squeeze her. She has a long, slender neck adorned by a huge diamond necklace like a complete blonde bombshell. She taps Draco on the shoulder.

He turns to her and his surprise gives way to polite amicability.

"Hello, sweetheart," she says warmly and kisses him chastely on the cheek. "Your mother told us you might be here tonight."

I can smell her perfume, spicy and sexy. It tickles my nose in a way that makes me twitch like a rabbit.

"I didn't know you were coming," Draco says stiffly, he glances at me and I can't hide the curiosity on my face.

"Anais, this is my girlfriend Astoria Greengrass," Draco says and it makes me insanely happy to hear him refer to me as his girlfriend. "Astoria, Anais Selwyn. She's the founder of _Selwyn's Salves_."

"Are you really?" I exclaim. I didn't expect a potioneer to be so… rich. "I love your shop!"

"You're sweet," she laughs, toying with her necklace and looking incredibly flattered. Her eyes are huge and blue, like summer skies. "It's nice to meet you. Draco, your father's here. I'm sure he'd like to see you and meet Astoria..."

"Did he send you over?" Draco asks shrewdly.

"No," Anais says tolerantly but gives him a reproachful look. "I saw you having fun and I thought I'd say how nice it is to see you out enjoying yourself for once. I had to look for so long to make sure it was you, I think Aidan Kiely thought I was going to hex someone!"

Now that I know Lucius Malfoy is here I can't help looking around for him. I'm intrigued by all the rumors about the man and Draco's own reluctance to talk about him.

"You're doing alright?" Draco asks Anais. There's a familiarity between them that I can't quite work out.

"Yes, I'm very well, Darling," she says fondly. "I'll let you and Astoria get back to dancing. I don't want to take up your evening, but it's lovely to see you smiling for once."

She pats his shoulder and gives me a little wave, dazzling me with her diamonds and her smile.

"How do you -?" I know I should know the answer to this but my brain isn't making the connections.

"_Selwyn's Salves_ was the first investment I ever made," Draco reminds me. "I suppose we'd better go and see Father. He'll only moan to Mother if I don't. You don't mind do you?"

I shake my head.

I'm secretly rather glad that I'll be in this state when I meet Lucius Malfoy for the first time. I don't feel any of the stomach clenching trepidation I felt when I met Narcissa – quite the opposite. As we peer around I'm pleasantly curious to meet a real life criminal, one who's even spent time in Azkaban!

Draco spots his father on the Ferris wheel. As I look up and catch my first sight of Lucius Malfoy I feel like I'm watching a god descend from heaven.

Lucius is tall and leonine and sort of good-looking in the icy way that Draco is. He's decorated in gold and jewels like a mayor. He's reclining languidly in his seat, cigar in one hand, tumbler of whiskey in the other, legs spread wide with a brunette in the reach of his arm. I get the overwhelming urge to laugh because he looks so rich and deadly.

"Good evening, Father," Draco says coolly as Lucius' carriage docks.

"Hello, Draco. Your mother said you might be here," Lucius remarks in a rich, smooth drawl as he makes his way towards us. "It's good to see you out enjoying life. You spend too much time shut up like a monk."

He doesn't seem at all ruffled that we've caught him having what appears to be a very serious conversation with the witch at his side. That may be because on closer inspection I think he's drunk. His eyes are a little red and he reeks of liquor.

"Draco's no monk," the witch says in a dark voice, like clotted blood.

She smiles slowly, cruelly, at me like an alligator. I sense her intense dislike of me and have to assume the worst: she's another of Draco's ex-girlfriends.

"Who is this beautiful creature?" Lucius asks with relish, turning his attention on me.

"This is Astoria Greengrass. Astoria, this is my father, Lucius Malfoy, and Malandra Whitehorn," Draco says shortly.

"Pleased to meet you, I've heard so much about you," Lucius drawls, taking my hand and kissing it.

All the while his mercurial eyes are hooked into me. It feels so indecently intense it's a relief when he finally releases me and looks away. I feel like I've been scorched.

"I'd rather like to meet Astoria properly. I'm tired of hearing second hand tales," Lucius says and takes a drag on his cigar while his eyes incise Draco. "I'm planning on going to the ballet in a couple of weeks. The two of you should join me. What do you say, Astoria?" Lucius tone doesn't leave any room for refusal.

"Er – yes. That'd be nice." I force out.

"Good girl," he purrs.

"You promised me a drink," Malandra reminds Lucius petulantly and I can see she's jealous of the attention I'm getting. Lucius ignores her.

"Are you doing well? You haven't replied to my last two owls," he chastises Draco, a touch of acidity in his yawning, lazy drawl.

"I didn't have anything to say in reply," Draco says somewhat defiantly. "You're doing well I suppose? We just saw Anais."

It looks a bit like a wrestling match of wills taking place, watching father and son stare each other down. I wonder if Draco's antagonism is rooted in his shame at trusting his father's morals or if he's nettled by a fresher betrayal.

"I'm keeping busy," Lucius says and there's a tantalizing, secretive curl to his lip. "It looks as if you are too. I've heard of your success from almost everyone we know. They're all jubilant, naturally. If there's ever anything you need, you know you only have to ask."

"Money is easy to make," Malandra says scornfully. "Knowledge and magical skill such as yours, Lucius, that's proper success."

I can see that Lucius isn't charmed by her servile praise.

"I had a fine teacher," he says courteously.

I instantly wonder if he means You Know Who. Malandra smiles a crooked, cutlass smile like she's in on the secret too. Draco has clenched his teeth. I can see his jaw and neck muscles have tensed. I hold his hand for solidarity.

"I'm sorry, Draco, are we keeping you from your _beautiful_ date?" Malandra sneers, linking arms with Lucius.

I see the way Malandra's dark eyes burn at Draco and then flick to fixate on Lucius' face. I think this girl has a thing for Malfoys.

"You're as impatient as ever," Draco retorts. "It's clear we're the ones who have interrupted something. Father, I'll look out for your owl about the ballet."

"I'll send it in due course. Astoria, I'm afraid I have another charming young lady demanding my time," Lucius says dryly. "I look forward to getting to know you better in the future."

His eyes smolder when he looks at me and I find myself holding my breath. I don't think I like his aggressive sexuality, the way he sears me with a look. It makes me feel scrutinized and objectified somehow.

"Oh my gosh! I think Malandra wants to fuck your dad!" I exclaim in gleeful mortification the moment they're out of earshot.

"Her mum got there first," Draco mutters darkly, staring after them.

My mouth pops open.

"Father's got an impressive scar on his shoulder, it was a_ gift_ from Tilda Whitehorn – she was Ottoline Higgs' sister, you know," he says, a look of distaste on his face.

"_What!?" _

I can't get my brain to work.

"You Know Who had a thing for psychotic brunettes," Draco explains. "He taught Whitehorn the Dark Arts along with… other witches. When He was gone the first time round Whitehorn took students. She didn't need money or fame or jewels, but what she did like was for her students to pay in violent and risqué sex acts. Apparently Father was into that kind of thing because he was her student for years."

I stare at Draco. He knows all that about his dad's private life? Talk about over-share! I'm scared to ask how Draco found out about his father's less than wholesome hobbies.

"Does your mum know?" I ask appalled.

"Yeah," Draco says and looks uncomfortable. "She was no saint herself. Tilda was just a means to an end." He assures me forcefully.

He looks so determined about this fact. I don't dare probe him any further. I file this bit of information away to analyze later but it prompts me to ask.

"You won't cheat on me, will you?"

Draco looks horrified and pulls me into a crushing, protective embrace that makes my bones crunch.

"No! Why would you say that?"

"I just thought because Malandra said…"

Draco takes me by the shoulders and holds me at arms length, looking seriously into my eyes. Behind him the circus party glows warmly with colored lights and cheerful sounds.

"Malandra was a mistake," he tells me firmly. "I don't make it a habit of talking about my past girlfriends, but there's only ever been one of them at a time."

"How many have you had?"

I'm curious and a little jealous of them, this string of girls who Draco has wrongly trusted. The thought of him having sex with Malandra Whitehorn depresses me – she made Pansy Parkinson look like a kitten. Was it because of them I had to sign the Secrecy Agreement? What did they do to hurt him so badly?

"Six," Draco says, stroking my cheek, his eyes dipping to my lips. "You're my lucky number seven."

I get this feathery, fluttery feeling in my stomach as he looks at me. The tenderness in his face puts my insecurities to rest. He's only got eyes for me. I'm his lucky number seven.

I feel powerful and pleased, completely separate of the Sneezewort.


	10. Chapter 10

**Title:** Dance with the Devil  
**Author Name:** Shy Unicorn  
**Rating:**M  
**Genre:** Romance/Friendship  
**Main Character(s):** Astoria Greengrass and Draco Malfoy  
**Ship(s):** Astoria/Draco, Lucius/Narcissa, Narcissa/OC, Lucius/OC  
**Summary:** Four years after Voldemort is vanquished Astoria Greengrass starts working for 'Witch Weekly' magazine as a feature writer. Her very first job is to interview Draco Malfoy who has just made his first million galleons without the aid of his rich parents. What happens when they meet?  
**Author's Note (A/N):**Hi guys, I hate to do this to you but I wasn't happy with the old version of chapter ten. Here's the re-written version. I hope you enjoy. Chapter Eleven will be coming soon.

**Dance with the Devil**

**Chapter Ten: Discarded Shoes**

Nott lives in a slowly decaying stately home, the kind with mounted Dragon heads on the wall and half the house out of use and draped with white sheets.

In a room richly decorated in gold and red burly guys cavort with household furnishings, friends clump together in exclusive huddles while drinking from paper cups as music shakes the walls. The scent of rum pervades everything. Draco has his arm around my shoulder as he entertains his friends.

Blaise Zabini, Lucian Bole (whose great-uncle was a famous writer I really respect), Montague and Goyle crowd around us vying for Draco's attention. I would find it kind of cool that Draco's their ringleader if their conversation wasn't so damn boring. It's all empty competitive jockeying and crude boy banter.

Nott's the only one who isn't joining in.

"Are you enjoying the party?" I lean over and ask Nott, when Zabini starts bragging about how he's on the Gringott's Treasure Hauler fast-track list.

Nott seems surprised that I'm interested in him at all.

"I wish people would stop Transfiguring the taxidermy," he says flatly. "I'm sick of finding raccoons with dicks the size of bratwursts propped up against everything."

I glance around and without much effort see a raccoon mounting a bronze bust of Untcuous Osbert. I just about manage not to laugh.

"Do you want to get a drink?" I ask Nott.

I want to give Draco a moment to himself. I don't want to come across as too needy even though I don't really know anyone else at the party.

"Sure," Nott agrees.

His nervous smile is like a twitch.

Together we extract ourselves from the group and head out into another room where the bar is set up.

Nott is painfully shy but there's something familiar about him that appeals to me so I persevere. Over shots of tequila we discover that we've got the same taste in music, comedy and films.

Lucian Bole comes over and joins us. I ask him about his great-uncle and for a long time Nott, Bole and I passionately discuss books. Zabini works his way into our circle and insists we all do a round of tequila slammers. I begin to feel a little hazy headed and decide that I'm the right side of tipsy. I begin to feel like I'm having a good time.

I spot Draco in the crowed by his light hair. He's talking with Goyle. Draco looks so aloof and distant compared to the other revelers. His body language is rigid and I wonder if he's having fun at all. In the half dark of the party his stubble gleams white like wet pebbles. Quartered and halved by shadows his pale face becomes a beautiful trigonometry pattern of flesh and onyx. I feel my attraction for him licking at me like flames.

Now that I'm tipsy and I've made some new friends I surrender to the familiar house party routines: I dance a while, I talk a while, I help Nott return a family of stuffed Guinea Pigs to their rightful anatomical sizes. We head into yet another room and find Goyle and Zabini having this very deep (and very drunken) talk about pre-destination and palmistry.

I realize we've got to_ that_ point in the night. The music has reached a crescendo and drunken behavior peeks when a spectacular brawl between two brawny meat-heads breaks out much to the delight of spectators.

Most people are either vomiting into hollow items of furniture, hugging each other and confessing never ending affection or are lamenting the misery of life. Apparently Draco's closest friends are a different breed of drunk to the ones I've usually encountered because they're amusingly philosophical as they squint and compare palms. Draco himself has yet to resurface. I decide to go looking for him.

I wander around, happening upon couples rubbing up against each other on sofas, more artfully arranged taxidermy orgies and a huge boy with purple eyebrows sleeping curled up like a much smaller person on a window ledge. I push out a little further and find a dark corridor lined with smokers, their cigarette ends floating red embers in the blackness. The air is cool out here and stinks like ash. I realize the walls are lined with shrunken House-Elf heads. Some irreverent person has put cups on their heads like party hats. My ears ring in the relative quiet.

It's then I hear the soft smoky voice of my favorite singer and the grainy scratch of a vinyl record playing. A chink of otherworldly blue light creeps out across the floorboards at the far end of the corridor like spilt potion. Curiously I step closer to investigate further. A slightly ajar door is letting out the light and sound. I ease it open and the scent of chlorine lifts to meet me.

There's something incredibly soothing about the aquamarine glow and the slow, retro sound of the record. The combination lures me down the stairs for a closer look. I feel a bit like an ocean explorer as I close the door behind me and sink into a world of blue.

At the bottom of the blue and gold mosaic tiled stairs I'm confronted by a large rectangular swimming pool. Its surface is a slab of luminescent jade. Whips of light wiggle across the walls and floor in incandescent waves.

On a fluffy Persian rug Draco sits hugging his knees to his chest, listening to the music. His head is tilted to the side and he seems both very young and very sad.

I waver between disturbing him and leaving. Unexpectedly he looks up, somehow sensing my presence. His eyes are wide and moonstone bright as he stares at me uncertainly.

"Hey," I say in a hushed whisper.

Draco breathes out a long sigh and ruffles his hair sheepishly when recognition finally breaks over him.

"We should go night swimming!" I exclaim impulsively, wanting to cheer him up.

I pull my dress up over my head and dive into the pool in my underwear. The water is cool and envelops me lovingly, like a fatherly embrace.

"I love swimming," I tell Draco, bobbing up like a cork. He watches me cautiously from the edge of the pool. "When I was a kid my parents would call me 'little fish' and I was obsessed with merpeople and stories about mermaids. Want to see my party trick?"

"Depends what it is," Draco murmurs impassively but inches a little closer to the edge of the pool.

"I can do ten somersaults in a row without coming up for air," I say proudly. "It used to make all the kids at the pool die with envy."

"Is that so?" he smirks.

"It's best if you see it from in the pool," I say and give him a hopeful look.

He relents, getting to his feet and pulling his robes off in one fluid motion. I shamelessly watch as he kicks off his socks and shoes and strips down to the waist. I guess it's true that real wizards don't wear underwear because Draco doesn't take off his winter breeches before diving head first into the pool.

He looks so exquisitely beautiful in the water. He tugs on my foot, pulling me under, signaling he wants to play. He moves through the water incredibly gracefully. His limbs are long and pale like fresh spring shoots and his hair sways like an anemone.

We circle one another under water, tugging and twirling in a soundless, weightless courtship. We pull faces and blow strings of bubbles like hot spring jets. I show off and prove I can still do ten somersaults without coming up for air both forwards and backwards. It's in these moments when I use him to center me I notice not just the lines of his muscles, the sinewy smoothness of his torso but also his scars.

In the flickering pool lights they gleam like gossamer threads. There's one which almost cleaves him in half! It runs the entire length of his torso stopping just short of his throat. There are two, low on his angular hip bone that look like scratch marks made by some huge wild animal. As he soars beneath me, wide armed, like a manta ray several long strap marks light up silvery-blue across his back. Each scar is a fresh reminder of his Death Eater past.

Eventually we tire and cling like barnacles to the edge of the pool.

"The first time I ever saw people having sex was beside a swimming pool," Draco confides.

I raise an eyebrow quizzically, signaling I'm not sure if he's propositioning me. Draco smiles almost sadly and shakes his head. It makes his silky blond hair sway like long grass in the breeze.

"I was four and on holiday in Italy. Mother put me to sleep in the shade, when I woke up she was swimming in the pool… she was completely naked, the light rippled over her like it was stroking her. I was amazed. I'd never seen her like that before. She was so innocently beautiful in the water, you know?"

He looks at me hard, like he really wants me to understand the gravity of that moment.

I look down at my own legs, the ethereal glow of the pool whispering over them. I envision a little boy with missing teeth and sun bleached hair as white as tropical sand curled up on a sun lounger. I imagine Narcissa distantly cutting through the water, long and lean like a pale eel.

"When she pulled herself up out of the pool her hair was butterscotch blonde like stretched out toffee. I knew I was intruding on something private, so I pretended to be asleep. She had this intense look in her eyes, like anger or fire, a real _damn you_ glare. She went directly to Alessandro Zabini, who was lying in the sun and climbed on top of him."

Draco nods his head imperceptibly and I know for sure he means Blaise Zabini's dad. For a second it feels like my guts are in free fall.

"He had this short, boot-polish black hair. It seemed exotic to me," Draco says, looking bemused. "She climbed on top of him and fucked him - right there by the pool in the middle of the afternoon!"

He looks dazed and taken aback by her bravado even now. I can't say I blame him.

"Jeez, Draco…"

"Adultery is still pretty standard among my parents' generation. As long as people are decent about it it's not scandalous," he explains evenly. I must look dubious because he adds, "If you're only going to marry other Purebloods looks aren't always high on the agenda. My parents are what's considered a 'good match' and they married for love, which is a rare combination."

"They love each other but they don't mind cheating on each other?" I query uncomfortably, recalling Draco's story about his dad and Tilda Whitehorn.

"They do mind," Draco says, kicking water a little more aggressively. He takes a moment to measure his words. "They've both had their reasons in the past. They're not easy people to love. They both demand to be worshipped, which can be exhausting. It's Father's drinking that my mother really can't stand. He hasn't been able to get a handle on it since the war and she doesn't suffer fools."

_No kidding_, I think, remembering her imperiousness.

"When Father can stay dry he'll stay at the Big House but it never lasts more than a couple of months. He mostly lives in the London Apartment, which is ironic when you consider how much he really hates Muggles."

Draco shifts his position so he can rub at his hands. He seems to do it unconsciously but I've begun to notice he only does it when he's particularly uncomfortable.

"Why does your mum take him back all the time?" I wonder aloud.

"Because they need each other," Draco says simply. "That's the unglamorous side of being soul mates. They'd go completely crazy without each other. They understand each other in this intense, unspoken way."

He smiles sadly. I return it fleetingly but deep down I feel disappointed in his parents. I feel like they've really let him down in so many ways. Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy might understand each other but it looks like neither Draco nor I do.

"I was relived when Father left. Isn't that awful?" he remarks awkwardly. "I don't like drunkenness. It makes me uneasy. I don't like how people change when they're drunk.

I hate that people hide behind drunkenness, like they abdicate all their control after a tiny bit of alcohol. If only it was that easy! I worry it's their true selves that come out, the mask of everyday life comes off and all the unpleasant things they do and say are what they really are in their souls.

I know some people find being drunk fun. That's why I come down here when it gets late. I don't want to stop my friends doing what they like but I don't want to hate them for it either."

"You don't need to be afraid of the people upstairs. They're your friends," I say gently. "They're having this big existential crisis over palmistry and pre-destination. It's pretty funny."

"I know it's illogical. It's just… the worst tortures and Muggle killings I ever saw always happened when there'd been a lot of drinking," Draco confesses.

"Oh."

"Why is it that smells bring back the clearest memories?" Draco remarks seriously. "Sometimes the smell of Firewhiskey takes me right back to a memory – the very worst. Elf-Made wine reminds me of my father: shambling and wandless walking the halls of the Big House wide-awake with insomnia. I hate the smell of Mead the most, the stink of it, yeasty and rancid. To me it smells like death – like bodies ripped open, torn and bleeding like nectarines."

I can't speak. There's nothing I can say to comfort or console him. In fact, I feel a little sick and overwhelmed. The water suddenly feels very cold and I want to get out.

"The murder that I always come back to happened at home. In the Big House."

"Draco…"

I don't know if I want him to remember. I don't know that I want to hear.

"Did you take Muggle Studies at school?"

"No," I say in a small voice.

"Well, I watched… I watched Him kill the Muggle Studies teacher, Professor Burbage," Draco breathes. "I saw the glassy terror in her eyes, heard her plead for her life. I couldn't do anything to stop Him… Dead people are so still. Your mind tries to trick them back into life – you find yourself thinking that maybe you missed them blink or looked away at the exact second they took a breath but they're empty; their bodies are like discarded shoes."

We tread water in silence for a long moment. The sadness of his words has spread over us like ink distilled in water.

"Why did you become a Death Eater in the first place?" I ask.

This has always been the question I come back to before falling asleep. I can't work it out. I can't picture Draco, who likes micro financing small businesses – who essentially helps people start being able to support themselves – and spends time with crazy farmers and Goblins joining an organization that basically hated everyone and everything that wasn't 100% certified-Pureblood-old-ways.

"I had to," Draco says quietly, looking at his feet. "For some people there's a choice, but for me it was Join or see my whole family wiped out and the end of the Malfoy dynasty, which isn't a choice at all."

I absorb this information slowly.

"I was sixteen when it happened."

"_Sixteen!?"_

"He mostly did it to punish my parents. He knew the thing they valued most was me, so it would hurt them most when I died. I was supposed to die a couple of times."

He says this with a kind of weight that someone of his age shouldn't know yet and a kind of authority and introspection that frightens me. He makes himself sound so disposable.

"What no one realized were the depths and lengths my mother and to some extent my father would go to to keep me alive. You should never underestimate my mother, but somehow people always do." He sounds proud and a little scornful.

"Oh, I won't," I assure him. "She's smart and beautiful and your mum. I'm terrified of her!"

Draco laughs and it's a sweet sound like struck bell.

"You don't need to be scared of her," he says. "She'll like you. You probably won't think she likes you at first but you'll win her over."

"You sound so sure."

I'm a little suspicious of his certainty. Hardly anything is for certain.

"You're ambitious, you're talented, you're smart, you're gorgeous, you're more accepting than anyone I've ever met. That should be enough for her," Draco says, leaving me blushing.

"I'm serious, Astoria," he says, looking at me so directly all I can do is look back. "It's enough for me."

The light from the pool plays over his skin. I'm overcome with affection for him. For a breath I feel our relationship shift like a set of scales balancing out. Now when I look at him I feel like his equal, his confidant, not some far off idyll.

The kiss that comes next should go down in history as one of the defining moments of the 21st century. The blend of tenderness and fierceness in the kiss has me weak and trembling. I wrap my arms and legs around him to stop from sinking like a stone to the bottom of the pool.

A short eternity later we clamber out of the pool, our heads spinning.

Draco niffles out some towels from an ottoman trunk and I set the record back to playing. Now we're back on dry land dripping all over the Persian rug we both become self conscious and shy in our skin. I don't know why Draco's worrying he's sublimely beautiful, so effortlessly lithe and lovely I hope that in my life time I get to kiss every part of him at least once.

I smooth my hand down his forearm, stilling him drying his hair and I slip my arms around his lean waist. His skin is pleasantly warm as I press my cheek to his chest. Draco's arms close in around me like a flower closing it's petals at the end of the day. I close my eyes and press my hands against his back, trying to memorize the shape and solidarity of his body. I can hear his heart beating in his chest and I plant a kiss on his breast bone to mark the moment.

Draco chains his fingers through mine and I press my lips to his knuckles enjoying the soft play of his skin on my mouth like flower petals.

"Do you want to go back to the party?" he asks.

I shake my head and will him to read my thoughts.

I want to stay here with him. I don't care about anyone else or anywhere else, to me there's nothing outside of the tremulous blue dark. My world has narrowed down to him.

Draco's face is all clean sharp angles. His lips are parted and I can see every little fissure in them. In the quiet of the sleeping house I feel possessive of him and free like an owl taking flight.

I draw him down onto the rug, which is warm and mamalian soft, like riding on the back of some big cat. He lets me lie him out to dry like laundry, leaning over him on hands and knees so my wet hair tickles his shoulders as I bow down and kiss him. He smells like chlorine as I nibble on his lips. Draco chuffs softly and tickles my ribs and waist and hips with light fingered caresses. I feel myself get warm and light headed, like I was a couple of hours ago when I was tipsy.

I sit back and hesitantly smooth my hands up his legs. His thighs feel like warm velvet. Draco's breath hitches and his entire body stiffens. His pupils are deepest black as he looks at me. I'm surprised by my own daring as I peel open his thin trousers. I kiss him, seeking some kind of reassurance that I'm doing this right.

The hot strength of his manhood surprises me the most. His skin there is soft and smooth like the belly of a frog but beneath the softness I can feel the molten heat of his blood. As my hand curls around him he's already unyielding. I experimentally stroke the length of him, noting the ripples and twitches that animate Draco's arms and neck.

"Astoria…"

His voice is husky and he sounds tense, perhaps a little unsure. He caresses my neck in what I take to be gentle encouragement.

I'm fascinated by the effect I'm having on him. When I start stroking him in a slow rhythm Draco's mouth softens and falls open. His eyes have become hooded but glitter feverishly as he looks up at me.

Together we watch my hand working the flushed pole of flesh vaulting upwards from between his legs. I wouldn't say that the male genitalia is particularly pleasant looking but there's something about Draco's dimensions that appeals to me. He groans in a way that makes me tremor with excitement. His hips flex so that I instinctively hold him tighter to maintain my rhythm.

I can smell his arousal in the air, it's humid and pungent, a kind of greenhouse scent that tickles my nostrils in a pleasant way. I moisten my lips because my mouth is suddenly dry as my own desire begins to heighten. There's something unexpectedly sexy about watching him float deliriously in his pleasure.

I wonder what he tastes like? I know all the clichés but I'm intrigued to know how _Draco_ tastes. I dip my head and take the tip of him in my mouth. I experimentally swirling my tongue over the head of his cock before gently sucking on him. There's a tang of sea-like saltiness which I'd expected but something else, almost sweet underneath. It's not all that bad, I think as Draco wrenches my head away.

"No! Astoria, don't!" he yelps, his hand pushing back against my shoulder.

I look at him in surprise. Was it too much? Did I hurt him? There's a deep frown on Draco's face.

"Don't…don't do that," he pants, shaking his head forcefully and stilling my hand.

"Did I do something wrong?" I ask in a small voice. "I haven't – I'm – I'm new to all this."

"It's nothing. I just don't like that," Draco murmurs, avoiding my eyes. Then something, probably my stuttering, makes him ask, "You haven't ever…?"

"Um, no," I admit awkwardly.

"That's not a turn on for me," he says, and when I look disappointed he hastily adds, "but it's not a problem! I'm just not weirdly into virgins."

"It wasn't a conscious thing," I say defensively. "Well, I mean, it was. I just haven't had much luck with boyfriends."

Draco slides his hands over my ribs and urges me to lie down next to him. I curl up on my side and face him.

"I know it sounds childish but I wanted my first time to be special, and with someone I care a lot about. It just never happened for me. Until now."

"Until now?" Draco repeats, turning his head a little and giving me a sly sideways look.

"Yeah," I say, unable to repress a shy smile. "You're special."

Draco glances at me quickly, checking that I'm serious about what I just said. I'm very serious. If things carry on like this then there is no way I'm going to be able to keep a lid on my libido and I wouldn't want to. I just hope he doesn't see it as a ton of pressure or a big deal.

Slowly, a smile spreads out across his face and he looks like the cat that got the cream.

"You_ like_ me," he says with accusatory relish.

"Yes," I say patiently, continuing to smile at him.

"You want to jump my bones," he says smugly.

"Shut up," I grin, scooping him up into my arms.

We kiss until our eyes are itchy with sleep and my lips are sore from his stubble.

I find myself wondering how I lived without Draco. In these few short weeks he's become essential to me like my lungs or my wand. I don't know what I'd do without him.

Eventually I fall asleep with my nose pressing against the hollow of his throat, his hand nestled in my hair.


	11. Chapter 11

**Title:** Dance with the Devil  
**Author Name:** Shy Unicorn  
**Rating:**M  
**Genre:** Romance/Friendship  
**Main Character(s):** Astoria Greengrass and Draco Malfoy  
**Ship(s):** Astoria/Draco, Lucius/Narcissa, Narcissa/OC, Lucius/OC  
**Summary:** Four years after Voldemort is vanquished Astoria Greengrass starts working for 'Witch Weekly' magazine as a feature writer. Her very first job is to interview Draco Malfoy who has just made his first million galleons without the aid of his rich parents. What happens when they meet?  
**Author's Note (A/N):**Here it is! Thank you for being patient with me. Enjoy!

**Dance with the Devil**

**Chapter Eleven: The Big House**

The weather is getting colder and colder these days. It's like we're doing a grand slalom into winter. Wily Priory looks oddly inviting tonight. The lower windows shine with warm light and I know that Draco is somewhere inside the house as I approach. I wrap my cloak tighter around myself and adjust the heavy book in my frozen hands.

I've been to the house a couple of times but I still can't get used to the heavy stone grandeur. The spiked gableheads and ancient stained glass windows remind me afresh what different worlds Draco and I inhabit.

I've barely knocked before the door opens. I guess I'm that punctual Draco knows when I'm going to arrive almost down to the second.

"Come in," he says hurriedly and motions me gracefully in from the cold.

"I brought you something," I say as he leads me into the parlor, which is bright and warm with candles and firelight.

"A present?"

He eyes me keenly at the prospect and I hold out the book in my hands for him to take. I have the sudden urge to pull back as the exchange happens.

"It's my copy of '_My Soul is Borne Through the Open Air'_ by Quirinus Quince. It's the book that changed my life," I say in an uncertain rush. "I don't know if you'll like it, but it's my favorite book. It's sort of like my soul in words. So, I thought you might like it too."

Draco turns the book over in his hands as I speak, opening the age darkened, dog eared pages and fingering the cracked, scarred spine.

When he looks at me it's with that unsettling clarity and I know he's aware of the deep importance of the book to me. He looks honored and reverent. It does feel a bit like watching him hold my soul in his hands. I think of all those night's he's opened his soul to me and I wonder if he felt this bare.

"I'll take good care of it," he says, setting it down on the seat of an armchair.

It's only then that I notice the room around us more clearly. The large cherry wood table that we've played board games at and spread maps over to plan extravagant trips is carpeted with plants. They're so dense they form a kind of jungle that cascades down and engulfs the thick rug beside the fire.

"Bringing the outdoors in?" I ask, intrigued by the triffid invasion.

"I'm keeping them warm," Draco says as he stokes the fire.

"Did they get too cold outside and need to warm their leaves by the fire for a while?"

"It was either that or knit little mittens for their leaves and I didn't think I could knit seventeen thousand mittens before dawn. Prodigious though my knitting skills are," Draco says dryly.

I smile and bend over to inspect the plants closer. They have expansive, serrated leaves that have crimson veins running like lava trenches in the grooves of otherwise green bodies. They feel rubbery and warm to touch, but the kind of warm that seems to resonate from within.

"Did they come knocking, begging for alms or did you rescue them from somewhere?"

Draco smiles and I feel warmed from within. He has such a sunny, little-boy smile. He crouches down, shifting out the lines so that some plants near the back get a chance closer to the fire. I watch him, fascinated by how lightly and carefully he treats the plants, almost like they're baby birds or some other blind and helpless creature.

"Arkie, who runs one of my plant nurseries, didn't have space for all of them in his cottage," Draco says without looking up from his plant reshuffle. "They're due at a lab tomorrow morning where they'll be turned into potion ingredients. The least I can do is give them one final night of warmth before their execution."

"You're so merciful."

"Not really. If these plants die I can't meet my order, which means I'll lose a lot of money and have two unhappy clients. I'm _mercenary_."

"Shush, not in front of the plants," I chide, gently framing one of the plants with my hands as if I'm shielding its' ears. "You'll hurt their feelings."

There's another flash of a smile and Draco straightens up. "What happened to your hair? Is it a side effect of Sneezewort withdrawal?"

"Funny. I colored it last night for a concert. I haven't got around to changing it back yet. I kind of like it."

"It's different," Draco says, coming over to me and stroking my hair, which is pale lilac.

He thoughtfully takes a tendril between his fingers and we both watch the play of light over it, gliding back and forth changing the color imperceptibly.

"It feels the same." He bends and kisses the top of my head. "Smells the same too."

A smile spreads across my face and I slip my arms around his waist and press my face into the front of his robes.

"Does that mean it can stay?" I ask, amused by his methodical approach to working out if he likes my new hair color.

"I like your natural color better. It seemed more honest. You're very honest. I like that about you. You don't try to hide things and you don't need to."

He kisses me sweetly on my lips.

"I can be cunning," I pout. "I'm not some transparent Gryffindor."

"I know," he placates. "I have a confession."

"What?"

Draco looks awkward and I can feel the color draining out of me. Oh, God, what's he going to say this time? I don't know if I can handle any more skeletons in his closest or more tales of his fucked up family's escapades. I'm almost flinching.

"I told Mother we'd go up to the Big House for nine o'clock cake. She's been wanting to see you for a while. I couldn't realistically hold her off much longer when Father let slip he's taking us to the ballet next week."

"Don't do that to me!" I warn, sagging in relief. I playfully slap his arm. "I thought you were going to say something terrifying."

"Tea and cake with my mother isn't terrifying?" Draco retorts.

"Okay, so, maybe a little," I acquiesce. "I've met her before, remember? It was sufficiently awkward but not disastrous. Parents like me. Your dad liked me, right?"

Draco laughs. "Yeah, he did like you."

"He said that?" I ask in surprise.

"He did," Draco affirms.

I feel weirdly elated to hear this and curious to know how that conversation went. I want his parents to like me, I want to like them too, especially his mum. After years of admiring that photograph of Narcissa on Daphne's wall I've got used to liking her and I don't want that to change.

"Let's go now before the rain starts," Draco says decisively, striding off to get his cloak.

We leave Wily Priory through the back of the house. There's no walled in garden, instead the Malfoy lands spread out in all directions as far as they eye can see. I can almost feel the magical boundaries surrounding us; it's a bit like being inside an enormous bell jar.

On the right, close to the horizon I can make out a cluster of small houses, some of the windows glow gold in the night. On the hillside dark animal smudges graze, whether they're sheep or cattle or magical animals I don't know. We head left, following a beaten down grass path that I think Draco himself has carved by his visits home.

As we walk up to the Big House I can feel myself getting more uneasy with every step. Draco holds my hand and I sense his nervousness mounting too. He gives me a fortifying squeeze and I'm not sure if it's really for my benefit or his.

The night is icy and the wind bites at our cheeks and snaps maliciously at our cloaks. We cross a shadowed field that skirts around a black wooded area on the side of a hill.

As we hike up the mound the silhouette of a soaring, solid, exquisitely beautiful Elizabethan manor rises.

The moon peeks out from behind skidding clouds and the house lights up as all the windowpanes gleam silver like mirrors. For a second it looks like the house is made of stone and skies, a patchwork of nature.

An icy thrill of awe crackles over my skin.

I can feel Draco's eyes on me trying to capture and dissect my first impressions of his family's home. I'm sure I'm a perfect picture of dumbfoundedness.

"The '_Big House'_," I say faintly. "I think that's possibly the understatement of the century, Draco."

He smiles tightly but in a blink it's gone.

I was expecting something grand and old, but _this_? This is beyond anything I've imagined both in its' beauty and its' ability to inspire the most profound insecurity I've ever felt. My knees actually go weak.

I laugh quietly to myself.

Once again it seems like I've drastically miscalculated Draco's wealth and the difference between us. My concept of being a Pureblood witch is understood in an indistinct, foggy kind of way. Now that I'm confronted with Draco's family home I realize that he has a much firmer, concrete grasp of the idea. This beautiful, old manor house which dominates the landscape is a very large and real reminder of his heritage.

I deduce we're at the back of the Big House judging by the way the yew hedge is open to admit visitors. A high marble fountain sits proudly in the center of a neatly manicured lawn. I squint into the dark and can just make out a bright white something which pecks and struts.

"That's just Sparky," Draco says, deducing the reason for my uneasy look.

"Sparky?"

"He's a white peacock." Draco says it so casually you'd think everyone has white peacocks hanging out in their back yards. "He's the least of your worries. Watch out for Morfin, he bites."

I give Draco a questioning look as we reach the house and he takes out his wand to rap against a set of oaken doors.

"He's a crup. My mother breeds them. She's got three right now: Morfin, Magnus and Mixie."

Draco looks deeply unimpressed by this. In fact, now that I look at him properly in the light of his wand he seems ashen and drawn.

"Wow. Mixie Malfoy?" I smirk, hoping to cheer him up. "That'd be a great stripper name."

"I'll tell my mother that," Draco says tonelessly, holding the door open for me.

I give him a look so stern I think Professor McGonagall would be proud. That is probably the last thing I want him to say to his mum right about now.

"Come on, you've got this far." Draco nudges me inside the house.

The white light from our wands glosses over highly polished dark wood cladding and another intricately carved doorway that leads into a long corridor. Draco takes me by the hand and I know I'm being a baby but I huddle close to him and let him guide us.

On the walls portraits of Malfoys stare coldly down at us from their golden gilt frames. There's a thick peacock blue carpet that's squashy underfoot. Everything smells like wood and the silver polish potion I once used to clean my flute when I was a kid. Up ahead on the right a line of orange firelight spills out across the floor like an exclamation point.

I hear the pitter of paws and a second later three little dogs, brilliant white and immaculately groomed, burst out of the room yapping and snuffling.

One with particularly wide set eyes springs up and snaps its jaws excitedly at my fingertips.

"Hi, Morfin," I say in that strange goo-goo voice I use when talking to animals and babies.

The dog snaps at me, licking and snorting, ceaselessly wagging its stumpy tail. I try to pat his head without getting my fingers chewed and end up getting covered in slobber.

The rabble of dogs provides a nice distraction as we enter a richly furnished drawing room. It has blackberry walls, icy chandeliers and a fireplace large enough for almost any human being to stand straight inside of. Four high backed armchairs have been arranged around the light and warmth of a bonfire-like blaze. I'm patting Morfin and trying not to trip over the smallest dog, who is running laps around me, as my eyes adjust.

I realize with a jolt that both the elder Malfoys are home.

Lucius Malfoy is reclining in a chair, one leg crossed, book in hand, a pair of square reading glasses perch precariously on the tip of his distinguished nose. He looks just as brash and bejeweled as when I saw him out in public.

"Draco, darling! Here you are!"

Narcissa rises from her seat closest to the fire. She's taller and thinner than I remember her. Tonight her expanse of golden hair is intricately braided and pinned up. She's intimidating, almost painfully beautiful but there's a streak of something almost gothic in her sharp, low brow. I think that's what makes people truly beautiful, that twist that lifts something rare to something unique.

"You look nice tonight," Draco compliments her.

He drops my hand and surges forward, putting himself between me and his mother.

Narcissa cups his cheek and fixes her piercing blue eyes on him, as if trying to read his thoughts. There's an outward restraint to her movements but I sense that not far beneath the glacial surface is a fierce molten core.

"You're working too hard," she pronounces at last.

"Mother," Draco sighs, unable to keep a tinge of exasperation from his voice.

She withdraws her hand and there's an equal amount of exasperation in that motion as she turns her attention to me. Her eyes are permafrost.

"Good evening, Astoria. So good of you to come to see us," she says coolly.

"Thank you for inviting me," I force myself to say. It comes out quiet and halting.

I smile tremulously. Narcissa's eyes continue to bore into me, unabashedly scrutinizing me from the roots of my lilac hair to the tips of my muddy leather boots.

"Come and sit down," Lucius calls gruffly and I feel a rush of gratitude towards him because it halts Narcissa's inspection of me. "I can't hear what you're saying over there."

Draco and I follow behind Narcissa and I try not to dry swallow too obviously. Draco gives me a weak, watery smile that doesn't do much to steady my nerves. My palms feel sweaty and gross. I surreptitiously wipe them on my dress as I sit down opposite Lucius, who ironically is the less scary of Draco's parents.

The blaze from the fire dowses me in heat. As Narcissa settles herself closest to the belching flames she adjusts a shawl around her shoulders for extra warmth. She tucks and smoothes the scarf until it sits at the most flattering angle possible. Only then does she fold her hands into her lap and turn her attention to the rest of us.

"Are you well, Astoria?" Lucius asks, looking over his glasses at me.

"Yes, I am. Thanks. Are you?" I sound breathless and shy.

"Yes, tolerably well," Lucius says, giving me one of his secretive smiles.

He snaps closed the book in his hand and lays it on a low table set for tea.

I notice it's the collected poems of Flavius Fainlight. I find it both surprising and touching that he was reading metaphysical love poems to his wife directly before we arrived.

"Harvest to Yuletide is easily my favorite time of the year. We're swimming in Russet apples. It's been a bountiful year, wouldn't you say, Draco?" Lucius drawls authoritatively.

"It's been alright," Draco says churlishly. "The Fever Ferns had to be brought in because of tomorrow's early ground frost. I've got about fifty of them squatting in my parlor."

"That's an annoying imposition. Couldn't Arkie or Billius have taken them instead?" Narcissa inquires, as one of the fat little crups hops up into her lap.

"It's fine, Mother. It's only one night," Draco says somewhat defensively.

"Would you like tea, Astoria?" Narcissa asks.

"Yes please."

"Remind me, Astoria, were you in Slytherin House with Draco?" Lucius asks as Narcissa flicks her wand to prepare the drinks.

"Yes, I was in Slytherin. I was a couple of years behind Draco, but my sister, Daphne was in the same classes as him."

Narcissa hands me a cup of tea and I pass it to Draco, who looks more uncomfortable and closed off than I've seen him in a long time. I almost wish I could slip something stronger into his drink but I don't think Narcissa would approve, especially as we seem to have caught Lucius on a dry night.

Draco takes the cup gratefully and I accept the second cup passed my way.

"What's become of Daphne? Is she prospering?" Lucius inquires.

"She's doing research into deep space and stars. She really loves it."

"I was very sad to here they're declassifying Pluto as a planet," Lucius drawls. "It seems as if everything is in decline these days."

"I quite agree. Plum and cherry tart, darling?" Narcissa asks, proffering a plate which Lucius accepts. "Are you finding journalism a satisfying career?" she asks me.

I can feel Narcissa sneering at me as she says this. I can sort of see why she'd be wary of journalists, it's not like they've always been kind to her and her family. However, I can't help but take the slight personally.

"I love it. It's brilliant writing practice," I say contrarily. "I really want to be a novelist but I'm grateful I have a job where I get to write everyday."

Narcissa looks at me sharply and I hold her gaze evenly. She doesn't outwardly soften towards me, but I sense a kind of inward re-evaluation taking place. I hope that's a good thing.

"Do you want the big bit?" I ask Draco, picking up the plate with the biggest bit of cake on it and offering it to him.

From our various lunch dates I've learned that Draco has a sweet tooth. He'd much rather eat dessert than a meal or have chocolate biscuits than savory snacks, which you couldn't tell by looking at him.

"Go on," I tempt. It's the least I can do to ease his suffering.

"Thank you," he relents, a fleeting smile upturning his mouth.

As he reaches out to take the plate from my hand a log cracks like a whip inside the fire. All three Malfoys jump in fright.

Draco looks embarrassed and avoids my gaze as he accepts his cake. He looks almost ill and I can't tell if the sweat that glitters on his brow is from the extraordinary heat of the fire or from the discomfort of being home.

"Do you have any hobbies besides writing?" Narcissa asks me smoothly, ignoring the way her husband and son shift uncomfortably in their seats.

"I like music," I say, forcing myself not to look at Draco or his dad.

"Do you play an instrument?"

"I like music but I'm not a very musical person," I confess.

"Narcissa is a very accomplished pianist," Lucius tells me proudly. "Why don't you play for us?"

Narcissa looks pleasantly embarrassed, almost shy, as if his praise has touched the real woman beneath the armor of propriety.

"I don't know…"

She looks wistfully at her cake and then up through her eyelashes at her husband. Her entire face seems to change when she smiles at him. "I'm terribly out of practice. Why don't I teach Astoria something?" she compromises.

I find myself looking at Draco to know for sure if this is a good idea. The piano is tucked away in a corner of the room, set back from the fire.

"She is really good," Draco says by way of encouragement.

Apprehensively I get up and follow Narcissa across the enormous geometric patterned rug. With a flick of her wand candles bloom, dispelling the darkness. There are some simple chairs arranged for listeners and the vast windows are covered by long, deep purple velvet curtains that don't entirely keep out the draft.

"Come and sit," Narcissa commands, sweeping the skirt of her robes out from under her and sitting at the piano stool.

I ease down next to her.

Side by side she sits a little taller than me even when I straighten up trying to match her upright carriage. She holds herself tight and proud at all times like a dressage horse. I marvel at the energy that she must put in to holding a pose like that. I start to cramp up after a couple of seconds and resume my usual slouch, like most of my generation we weren't threatened with back braces and straightening charms.

"You play this," she instructs and tinkles four keys one after the other, threading them together with her fine boned fingers.

Narcissa points with her frosty blue eyes that it's my turn to try. I play the keys just as she did but it doesn't have the same sound. You can hear the uncertainty in my novice notes.

"Keep that going. Now I'm going to play too," she warns me, and it's a good job she does because I would have faltered.

She spreads both her hands wide and her fingers go running, playing a dramatic racing tune that is nothing like my metronome four beats. I can feel the music vibrate through me.

The sound she creates is phenomenal. Her face remains impassive and she hardly seems to be concentrating at all. Narcissa plays from memory and the notes pour out of her with remarkable ease. The sound builds and builds, each phrase even more profound than the next.

"Don't let her frighten you, Astoria. She's just showing off," Lucius calls jovially.

Narcissa sneaks a look sideways at me and a slight smile curves her mouth.

"You're doing very well," she says quietly.

She plays around my hand, creeping underneath my arm to get around me or reaching boldly over as she needs to. Narcissa holds me as fascinated as if she were telling a story. The music does seem to have a narrative. I think of a unicorn or some brilliant pure creature pursued by an enemy; the forbidden forest at night; dark, inhospitable places, caves and pits and innumerable snares and then a kind of blissful chaos that sounds like falling in love.

"The trick when beginning to learn anything," Narcissa tells me, "is you must see the wonder in what you could achieve or else you'll never practice. I sat at a piano very like this one when I was five years old and I played just as timidly as you are playing now."

"I'm sure you never played this badly," I say graciously, which earns me a wider smile from the impressive witch beside me.

"Would you still like me to teach you to play something?"

"Okay," I breathe, completely captivated by her.

"We'll start with something simple which sounds very impressive," Narcissa says and I'm disappointed when she stops playing.

"How old are you now, Astoria?" she asks as she manipulates my fingers, showing me the notes to play.

"I'm twenty. I'll be twenty-one in May."

"They say May born witches marry Muggles. I do hope that's not true for you."

I don't know what to say to that, so I don't say anything. I didn't expect the wife of a Death Eater to be pro-Muggle but I didn't think she'd be so bold about her opposition to them. It's not exactly okay in the current political climate to admit that kind of hostility anymore.

I concentrate on my fingers. Narcissa's touch is silky but firm. Her hands show her true age, unlike her flawless face. Her hands are careworn and slightly red from hard use and I can feel a small round callous from a quill. They're also very long and elegant and I think perhaps there's a similarity to Draco's.

"Have you thought much about it?"

I look up blankly into her exquisite face. Her eyes are vivid blue and cool like a mountain stream splashing over my cheeks.

"About marriage? To Draco?" I ask in embarrassed surprise.

"When I was a girl all we thought about was marriage. Courting without intent to marry is a very foolish thing," she says sternly. "Romantic love is not infinite as your writers and poets would have you believe."

I feel a bit like I'm being told off. I don't know what she wants me to say. I don't think I want to tell her that I think I'm in love with her son before I tell him that. I'm not sure if she's saying the intent is more important or the love. From what Draco's told me about his parents Narcissa Malfoy and I have very different ideas about love.

"I'm trying to work out what sort of girl you are," Narcissa says, folding her hands into her lap and looking at me.

I can feel her indomitable will focused on me. She's tenacious like the green buds of spring that push up through the snow.

"I don't know your family well. You're poor but are you respectable?" she muses.

I look at her, astonished and annoyed that she has the gall to insult me and insinuate I'm not respectable in the same breath! Her eyes are shrewd and searching. I realize she's got no qualms about offending me because she thinks she's so much better than everyone.

"I'm more respectable than you," I say defiantly.

Her laugh tingles and stings hotly like thawing frost on delicate fingers. She appraises me with resentful admiration.

"I suppose you are," she says, her voice rich with dark amusement. "But I have been playing this game much longer than you have."

"You just can't admit you're wrong, in _anything, _can you?" Draco yells, his voice rising with his temper.

My fingers falter on the keys. Narcissa and I look over our shoulders to where Draco is on his feet, glaring down at his father.

Draco is furious. He's taken out his wand and is pointing it aggressively at his dad, who remains in his seat. Lucius' pose is still one of a wizard at rest but his eyes burn malevolently.

"You ruined our lives and you're still trying to blame everyone but yourself!" Draco shouts passionately.

He blazes out of the room.

"You insolent runt! You still don't understand a thing!" Lucius yells after him venomously, determined to have the last words.

Shocked by Draco's explosion I get to my feet and have enough time to see Narcissa's wide, startled eyes staring after me before I'm out in the corridor.

"Draco, wait!" I call, practically jogging to keep up with his long, smooth, self-righteous strides.

He flings the doors open and night air smothers me like a pillow. It's drizzling and everywhere smells like wet leaves and ice. I try not to skid on the slippery lawn.

"I hate him! He's a nightmare!" Draco rages.

I trudge determinedly after him into the dark, cold night. I've never seen him this angry before. It's frightening. He's completely consumed by a black hatred so intense it's like he's possessed by something otherworldly. I almost don't recognize him.

At the top of the hill Draco slows down and begins to pace. He runs both his hands through his hair in exasperation.

"Don't you dare tell me to calm down!" Draco yells preemptively.

"I wasn't going to. Be as mad as you like," I say, holding up my hands in surrender.

Watching Draco pace gives me an idea. I charm the ground we're standing on to become as springy as a trampoline.

I start bouncing.

Draco watches me warily.

"Come on, it'll help," I say, taking his hand and drawing him into the circle of enchanted earth. "Just try it."

I catch his bounce and fly up so high I almost lose my balance. My downbeat sends him careening. I jump harder, more aggressively and Draco follows my lead.

His expression clouds, his brow creases in a deep frown and his jumps become violent, staccato stabs as he finds his rhythm. His hands turn to fists, his jaw clenches and even in the dark I catch the black coal fury in his eyes.

"Come on!" I yell at him. "You can do better than that!"

I really let loose. I jump on the spot with all the energy I can muster. I shake my head like I'm at a rock concert and fling my arms around. I haven't done this in years. It feels so good to just not care.

I yell at the heavens. It's a rough, gutterall roar and I hold it until my throat burns. Draco looks at me in astonishment.

I hold his gaze as I bounce, insolently, willing him to try it with my blank look.

I yell again and this time his shout mingles with mine creating a tower of sound that offends a flock of birds. They rise, squawking indignantly, and fill the sky like repelled iron filings. We continue to yell until we're hoarse and red in the face.

Then, when we're tiring, we begin to laugh.

I think the absurdity of the two of us, screaming at the sky, on a trampoline patch of earth in the middle of the Wiltshire countryside hits. Or maybe it's even simpler than that. Maybe we're laughing because we're happy now that it's just the two of us again, letting off steam.

"Thank you," Draco pants, slowing to a stop.

"What for?"

"For being the only person who doesn't think I'm crazy."

"Of course you're crazy. We're all crazy sometimes. Besides, crazy is a compliment where I come from, remember?"

"Thank you for being the only person crazy enough to be crazy with me," Draco puffs.

"My pleasure," I say breathlessly, as he helps me back onto solid ground.


	12. Chapter 12

**Title:** Dance with the Devil  
**Author Name:** Shy Unicorn  
**Rating:**M  
**Genre:** Romance/Friendship  
**Main Character(s):** Astoria Greengrass and Draco Malfoy  
**Ship(s):** Astoria/Draco, Lucius/Narcissa, Narcissa/OC, Lucius/OC  
**Summary:** Four years after Voldemort is vanquished Astoria Greengrass starts working for 'Witch Weekly' magazine as a feature writer. Her very first job is to interview Draco Malfoy who has just made his first million galleons without the aid of his rich parents. What happens when they meet?  
**Author's Note (A/N):**Here it is! Thank you for being patient with me. I am so very sorry this took so long. The second quote from _'My Soul is Borne Through the Open Air'_ comes from Joanna Newsom's epic song _Only Skin_. Enjoy!

**Dance with the Devil**

**Chapter Twelve: Oysters**

Draco Malfoy knows how to do dating, which is sort of unexpected because of his complete lack of faith in humanity and our unromantic beginnings. When he shows up to take me to Vienna to meet his dad for our night out at the ballet he's in a handsome set of green robes and has a huge bouquet of flowers. I don't have a vase to put them in so they end up on my desk in a measuring jug that I embarrassedly charm to look a bit more decorative.

Vienna is breathtaking. The city is nothing but magnificent stone buildings all deeply impressive in their vast scale and strict uniform regularity, like an Escher drawing come to life. There's something about the grand symmetry and rooted stone immovability that I imagine appeals to Lucius Malfoy.

I'm really apprehensive about spending the evening with Draco's dad. Probably because the last time I saw him he was shouting insults at Draco, who was shockingly upset. I still get a tremor of anxiety when I think about it. It's a testament to how much I like Draco that I'm not loaded up on Sneezewort. As far as I can tell their quarrel seems to be over because Draco is talking animatedly as we approach the oyster bar where we're due to kick off the night's festivities. I'm not quite so willing to forgive Lucius Malfoy.

The oyster bar is dimly lit and decorated with plush velvet chairs and gold draping tapestries, giving it an intimate, opulent atmosphere. There are few customers but all of them have one thing in common: they look stupendously rich. Even though I look relatively smart tonight I still feel the need to put my shoulders back and try to stand a little straighter. I feel terribly out of place.

"I haven't eaten oysters before. I didn't expect all this," I say hurriedly, waving vaguely to the jewel encrusted goblets and silver platters of oysters heaped on beds of sparkling ice.

"You're going to get the _whole_ Lucius Malfoy experience tonight," Draco tells me sardonically.

I must look slightly afraid because he half smiles and draws me into a sideways hug.

"I'll keep you safe. You've got nothing to fear. I'll teach you how to shuck some serious shellfish," he promises, cracking his knuckles. "I'm a professional, you know?"

I laugh at the smug expression on his face, how proud he is of this unusual skill. Draco makes my life better in an indefinable way. I find myself smiling for no reason other than the shape of his smile.

At a table in the back of the restaurant Lucius Malfoy is settled snugly with a companion. I'm relieved he's not alone. He's wearing satiny black robes and his long, pale hair is pulled into a low ponytail by a strap of leather. Although still broad-shouldered and intimidating he seems assuaged by the woman at his side. I recognize Anais Selwyn by her big blue eyes and her glossy golden hair that looks so invitingly soft. In the candlelight she's effervescent, her lips and cheeks as pink as cherry blossom. Lucius smiles, charmed by something she says as we draw near.

"Good evening, Father," Draco says, drawing their attention.

I shuffle behind him a little, using him as a human shield to protect me from scrutiny.

"Hello, Son. It's so good of you to join us – and Astoria too! You get prettier every time I see you. Come and sit down. I do hope this is respectable enough for you, my dear," Lucius drawls not deigning to get up, his last comment aimed at me.

I blush deeply, recalling my angry outburst to Narcissa Malfoy.

"Are you having a good week?" Anais asks Draco getting to her feet and drawing him into a hug.

"Actually my contract with Primpernelle's fell through," he grouches, relaxing into her arms and kissing her cheek. "But who wants to work with them anyway? They're just a bunch of painted up old hags. Ragnok warned me their accounts looked sketchy to begin with."

"There you have it, it was clearly for the best," she placates, stroking a soothing hand over his sleek hair. "Astoria, it's so lovely to see you again."

She turns her dazzling blue eyes on me and leans over the table to welcome me with a hug too.

"Hi, nice to see you," I breathe.

She smells of roses, which brings to mind the succulent Turkish delights we always eat at Christmas.

"Was your Portkey journey alright?" Lucius asks, pulling out a seat for me so I'm forced to sit next to him. "Drink?"

He doesn't wait for my answer before pouring me an almost overflowing glass of Elf-Made wine. We all shuffle closer together to fit around the table. I sit straighter than usual, tense and on edge, uncomfortably close to Draco's dad. The table gleams with bizarre cutlery and the oysters look wholly unappetizing in their slate-like shells.

I look to Draco for comfort and reassurance. He takes a sip of the drink he's been given and I follow his lead. The wine tastes amazing, which shouldn't surprise me but does.

"Er, yes. I'm not Portkey Sick, so it was fine," I say in that dumb uncertain voice that I apparently reserve especially for my dealings with Lucius Malfoy.

"We came out right on the corner of the Stephensplatz, so we didn't even have far to walk. What about you?" Draco asks, un-ringing his napkin.

"We came by the river. It's a beautiful walk this time of year, if a little bit cold," Anais answers, her eyes sliding warmly to Lucius.

"Have some more Elf-Made wine before I'm terribly rude and finish it," he says attentively, pouring her more wine. "Astoria, as our prized guest of honor, do help yourself to the first oyster."

I hesitate. I'm worried they're going to be obviously alive, like snails in their shells. Trying not to look revolted I pick up one of the scrubby gray molluscs between finger and thumb and set it down on my plate. It looks daunting. I think the person who discovered oysters were edible must have either been starving or mental.

"How are the tabloids?" Lucius asks me. "Do you have any salacious gossip to share with us?"

His eyes gleam meanly in his smoothly arrogant face.

"I'm working on an article about illegal dragon poaching because of the current craze for dragon hide bags and shoes. So unless you know any Eastern-European criminals, no."

"I've known plenty in my time," Lucius says quite calmly, "but none currently, I'm afraid. I've always found responsibly sourced dragons produce better hides to begin with. Of course those with little magical feeling will always be looking to turn a quick profit. It's a great shame, dragons are very noble beasts."

I'm caught off guard by his matter-of-fact tone and his smoothness.

"Help," I whisper to Draco.

He smirks at me and I see that he's pleased to be able to show off his oystery skills. Everyone gets busy de-shelling their supper and it gives me a nice excuse to cozy up to Draco under the pretense of him helping me crack open my oyster.

"So, here's how you do it," he says, picking up his oyster like it's a flat stone he's going to skip across still water. "Poke, prod and peel."

"And I thought you weren't supposed to play with your food!" I quip.

Draco snorts and gives me a quelling look. His gray eyes glitter in the soft light and I find myself smiling. His profile glows with strength and ruler sharp regularity, like the buildings outside. The only hint of softness is his mouth, pink like rose quartz.

Draco holds up his oyster and shows me the little indentation in the cleft of the tightly closed shell, it's a bit like a stone lipped mouth. He pokes a hooked knife into the groove and jimmies the shell open. With a couple of well placed scores he cuts the pale oyster meat free from its slate shell so that it can drift patiently in a pool of its own brine.

I have a feeling it's not as easy as he made it look as he hands me the knife.

"Poke. Prod. Peel," I recite as I try to follow his example.

The oyster is more obstinate than I expect it to be. I wiggle the knife around with increasing pressure until it eventually concedes defeat and snaps open for me.

"Hey, I did it!" I exclaim in gleeful surprise.

"They taste like snot if you don't put some lemon and Tabasco on them and maybe a little black pepper," Draco says, passing me condiments as I finish preparing my oyster.

"Charming, Draco," Lucius remarks snidely. "It's nice to know after all these years of fine dining your pallet is so sophisticated."

"Do I chew it?" I ask uncertainly, taking a wedge of lemon from Draco.

"Swallow it straight down, that's the best way," Lucius says, raising his oyster like he's toasting with it before knocking it back like a shot of liquor.

"It's a nice kind of saltiness," Anais assures me off the back of the apprehensive look I give my oyster.

"_Nice?" _Lucius questions, as if objecting to her choice of words.

"_Nice_," Anais repeats softly, a small smile playing around her lips.

The curl of Lucius' lip suggests some kind of a private joke.

I figure eating the oyster can't be worse than the time Xen, Pace and I accidentally created a cabbage flavored cocktail. I take a breath and slurp the oyster.

Draco's right, the texture is cloying and sort of gross like having a cold. The flavor is a kind of wild rich saltiness that makes me think of sea foam and that night by the swimming pool. The acidy lemon aftertaste hits the back of my throat and makes me cough. Blushing furiously with embarrassment I cough until my eyes stream.

For the rest of the supper, even though I'm starving, I don't dare touch another oyster. The conversation is animated and the wine flows in abundance. Lucius makes sure my glass is constantly topped up so I can't be certain how much I've had to drink. Lucius and Draco exchange news full of witticisms and scathing remarks, Anais and Draco talk plants and potions, which leads Anais to tell a very funny story from her travels in Russia searching for rare plants to use in the beauty products she brews for a living.

Every once in a while I see Draco looking speculatively at me out of the corner of his eye, checking on me to see if I'm okay. It warms me like the wine when I feel his eyes on me.

Lucius becomes indolent as supper progresses, whether from wine or from the sound of Madam Selwyn's voice, I can't be sure. He barely takes his eyes off her, and I can't say that I mind because it means I don't have to feel the weight of his attention pressing against me.

When we get up to go to the theater I realize I'm having an unexpectedly good time and that I'm slightly woozy from drinking too much. It feels very opulent and unreal to be in Vienna eating oysters and drinking the finest wine and going to the ballet.

Draco helps me on with my cloak which is such a gentlemanly gesture I beam up at him as bright as a lighthouse.

"You're wandering," Anais says to Lucius in an undertone as she slips around the table.

She strokes a hand down his back with luxuriant familiarity as she squeezes past him. For a second I get the impression she's intimately acquainted with the shape of his body. By the time I've blinked I don't know where that thought came from because there's not a hint of impropriety between them.

I covertly watch in spellbound disgust as Lucius touches his eyeball and rotates it slightly in the socket. The pupils are slightly mismatched in size and I realize that it's not a real eye at all but a glass one, a fake! I repress a shudder.

Outside the streets are windy and I huddle next to Draco greedy for his warmth. We slip our arms around each other, our scarves blowing like kite tails behind us. It's dark and the streets are mostly empty despite the fact I think we're in the very center of the city. It feels so good to hold him and rest my head against his shoulder.

"Are you enjoying yourself? You're very quiet," Draco remarks, finally getting a second to check in.

"I'm okay," I say, nuzzling his shoulder. "Your dad is a bit scary. I'm glad Anais is here. She seems to take the edge off."

"I'm glad you're here," Draco says, holding the theater door open for me and stealing a kiss.

It feels childishly sinful to kiss him in such a public place. I glance guiltily at Lucius and Anais to check they didn't see us. They're a few steps ahead of us, absorbed in their own conversation. Lucius is steering her with a hand on the back of her neck, his thumb absently caressing behind her ear as she talks.

"I started reading '_My Soul is Borne Through the Open Air'_," Draco says as we go up a series of winding red carpeted stairs.

"What do you think so far?" I ask excitedly. "Isn't it great?"

"It's not what I usually read. There hasn't been any blood or sex yet, which is a shame, but I think I like it," he says loftily.

I smile at him, pleased that he's persevering with the book because it's been an important novel to me.

We emerge in a private box right above the stage. There are four red velvet chairs set out for us close to a golden spindled balcony. The theater below is grand and hums with the sound of many people. In the dimness jewels and expensive furs shimmer obliquely. Lucius positions me on his right hand side, Anais on his left, so I'm sat in the middle between him and Draco.

There's momentarily small talk between us about the glamour of the theater, the art work on the walls and the prestige of the Dance Company as we shed our cloaks.

"Do you agree with Quince about soulmates?" Draco asks, coming back to the conversation we were having before, "That there's one person _'who has locks that fit our keys and keys that fit our locks'? _In a non-sexual way, of course."

I laugh at the hint of a sneer around his nose and mouth. I can tell from his tone that he's doubtful.

Trying to organize my thoughts is hard because I've had a bit too much to drink. I can't shake the weird feeling that all my paths were leading to him. How we so easily get along, how even though he's got this shady past and whole host of problems it doesn't feel hard to like him. Draco is so different to all the other boys I've known.

"It's complicated. I think ultimately, yes," I say slowly, surprised by my own conclusion. "I'm haunted by this line that Quince writes: _Life is thundering blissful towards death in a stampede of nature's fumbling green gentleness_. I just love that."

"I can see why Quince was such a raving crack-head if that's all he had going round in his addled brain – how we're all going to die and be forgotten in the end," Draco says archly. "No wonder it was so important to him that love was eternal."

I laugh.

"Yeah, but see, I think that's a really beautiful idea – that our lives are just this tremendous flash. It reminds me to live in the moment and that life is a gift."

Draco opens his mouth to say something but doesn't have time to speak because darkness is descending and a hush has come over the audience. The show is starting.

As the curtain pulls back Draco takes my hand in his. His thumb whispers against the back of my hand, scrolling in feather light circles that create fizzly fireworks of sensation beneath my skin. I can't concentrate on the show because in the dark Draco is all I can think about. His touch is excruciatingly tender.

The ballet tells the story of Mirabella, a human, who falls in love with a merman. Her family forbid her to marry him so she Transfigures herself into a haddock so they can be together. It's ridiculously moving. The dancers are insanely talented, even I can tell that. Their movements are as light as air and perfectly measured. The dancing mingles with magic so seamlessly it's like watching a dream. The last act manages to almost make me cry. Tears burn my eyes and I blink hard to dispel them feeling like a total wimp.

I try to wipe my eyes subtly and spy that Lucius casually has his hand on Anais' thigh, both of them are watching the dancing. A moment later she whispers something in his ear which makes him chuff with amusement before they settle back into companionable silence.

I stare at his pale hand for a long moment, my heart beating hard in my chest, trying to work out if this confirms my suspicions that they're lovers. I wouldn't put it past Lucius, I mean, there's that whole Tilda Whitehorn thing. I squirm, suddenly more awkward than ever. I feel somehow complicit. I like Anais but I feel like I shouldn't if she's Lucius' mistress, like I somehow owe my loyalty to Narcissa because she's Draco's mum and Lucius' wife.

I look to Draco, as if looking at him is going to help me solve the conundrum in my head. His face is splashed with light from the stage turning his gray eyes into iridescent crystals. A deep contentedness rolls over me when I look at him. How I feel about him is uncomplicated. It feels pure somehow. I lay my head on his shoulder. From time to time I hear his breathing and it sounds sweeter to me than any instrument in the orchestra.

When the show ends we all shuffle down to the bar, slightly dazed by the splendor of what we've just seen. Lucius insists on getting yet another bottle of Elf-Made wine. I still feel lazy and light headed from all the drinks I've already consumed and a little unsteady on my feet.

"A little secret between two witches," Anais says coming up to me and shielding me from Lucius and Draco, who are arranging to meet up to go Broom Racing together. "Switch to apple juice when you've had enough. Lucius could drink a troll under the table. It's hopeless trying to keep up."

She looks around and surreptitiously taps my glass of wine with her wand.

"Thanks," I sigh in relief and give her a small uncertain smile. I wish she'd taught me that trick a bit sooner. "I didn't want to seem rude."

Her brilliant blue eyes settle warmly on me. Standing beside her I can't help noticing her pin-up figure and her girlish prettiness. I decide that she and Lucius probably are carrying on together.

"You're not what I expected, but Draco's so much happier since he met you. It's lovely to see him enjoying himself," Anais says quietly, and I feel drawn in by her, as if she's telling me a secret. "You can't know what a miracle you've worked. It's such a relief. He's even started to be able to perform some quite impressive magic again. We're all so grateful to you."

I look over at Draco to see if I can see an outward difference in him since we met.

Lucius and Draco are standing by the bar, opposite each other they're the same height. They both look equally smart and impressive in their dress robes, though Draco appears leaner and fresher. His short, silvery blond hair shines silkily and although they do have a strong family resemblance Draco's good looks are more refined and delicate which I think is Narcissa's subtle influence.

"Wait," I say, frowning slightly, fighting through the fog of my drunkenness. "Draco's had trouble doing magic?"

"It's nothing serious," Anais says breezily, sipping her drink. I don't know if she's downplaying it because she thinks she's said too much. "He's always preferred potions and bossing people around to showy wandwork. He was such a belligerent little boy!"

She smiles nostalgically.

"What are you saying about me?" Lucius booms, coming up beside Anais and looping his arm around her tiny waist.

She pats his chest affectionately. He looks at her with feline indulgence, like a cat stretching after lying in the sun all afternoon. In her arms he becomes a paper tiger. I'm pretty sure he's drunk.

"We were talking about your fabulously successful son," she yawns as Draco comes over to stand with me. "What we ought to be talking about is getting to bed. I have to be up early tomorrow. Are you two Portkeying back?"

"Yes, we're destined for Astoria's house in London," Draco says as he drapes his arm around my shoulders. "Are you going that way, Father?"

"Not tonight," Lucius drawls vaguely. "Thank you for joining us, Astoria. I do hope you had a pleasant night. I'm sure I'll see you again soon. Perhaps if Draco plucks up the courage to ask you'll come to us for Christmas? Malfoy Manor is a utopia when there's snow on the ground."

"That's such a generous offer," I say at once, looking sideways at Draco.

I'd sort of had it in mind to ask him to come to my family's house for Christmas Day.

Our party breaks up and good nights are said all around. Lucius and Anais share a Portkey back to England but Lucius' final destination remains unclear. As Draco and I Portkey back to my house I find it hard to distinguish between the motion of the Portkey and the spinning in my brain.

Back in England it's black and drizzling. The garden smells of wet grass and ice.

Draco steals a kiss and I fade into his arms, reluctant for the night to end and for him to vanish into it. I sneak my arms beneath his cloak and hold him close.

"Can I come up for a drink?" he asks, his lips brushing against my ear.

"Sure," I reply, pulling back so I can see his face.

In the orange spray of the distant street light a heavy tiredness has descended upon him. He seems subdued by some secret sad thought and I quietly lead him up the threadbare stairs to my apartment. My own head is muddled and blunted from alcohol. I feel like I sail forward, drifting on phantom legs.

The apartment is brilliantly bright, there are lights on everywhere but no one seems to be around. Muffled music pounds like a heartbeat from behind Pace's bedroom door and I figure he's still up. Xenia's room seems silent and dark and I wonder if she's decided to spend the night at Marcus' place as has become her habit.

In the kitchen I collect cups and brew some peppermint tea. Draco slides down at the table and rests his head in his hands. I leave him be for a little while, not sure how to address his sunken mood. I feel slightly out of my body, as if I hang over myself like a ghost. The night's events swirl in my brain like cauldron fumes.

When I clunk the cups down on the table Draco looks up and a cursory smile licks his lips. He looks exhausted in the glare of the gas lamps, heavy lines score beneath his eyes and down turn his mouth adding new geometry to his face.

"You won't end up like him," I say quietly, guessing that his low mood stems from something his dad said upon parting.

"What makes you think that?" Draco asks, his voice has a bitter edge.

He curls his hands around his cup, nursing his drink.

"Because you're better than him," I say at once, like it's the most obvious thing in the world, which to me it is.

His eyes flick to meet mine, steely gray and inquisitive.

"You are," I say earnestly and take his hand in mine. "You're not a bad person, Draco."

He presses my hand to his lips and turns his head to the side so I can't see his eyes. I think I've touched a raw, wounded place inside of him. There's a heaviness in the air and in Draco's shoulders and I realize he's on the edge of crying. I wait watchfully, letting him hold my hand, ready to see him through whatever comes next.

"Can I stay over?" he asks after a long silence. "I don't think I want to go home to that mausoleum tonight."

"Yeah, of course," I say faintly, surprised by his request.

His gratitude is written all over his face in subtle ways. He doesn't speak but he doesn't have to.

"How did your dad lose his eye? You don't have to tell me if you don't want to," I add hastily, thinking that perhaps that was a bad question to ask when Draco is so vulnerable.

"My mother did it," he answers.

I freeze up like someone's put a Body Bind on me.

"It was a nasty shock for her too," Draco says, interpreting my silence correctly. "She did it with a dagger. It was an accident. It was dark and she didn't realize it was him until it was too late."

He pauses and licks his dry lips and gives me a furtive look.

"She had to protect herself somehow. It was during the war, when the house was overrun with scumbags. By that point neither of them had wands, so… by the time they could've fixed it, it was too late for Father's eye. He was lucky really. She could've killed him if she'd stabbed him harder."

I stare at him for a long time. I can feel my brain firing synapses left right and center but none of those pulses translate into proper thoughts. I don't know if Draco's stillness means he secretly wishes his mother had hit harder.

"Shit, Draco," I mumble at last.

I find myself thinking, does it ever end with this boy? No wonder all his ex-girlfriends have run screaming for the hills. Because of his parents he's got more problems than millipedes have legs. A rolling tiredness comes over me and I feel sorry for him right down to my bones.

When I look up his gray eyes are fixed on my face and I wonder if he's expecting me to ask him to leave or at the very least take one giant emotional step back. It would probably be a smart move to do either of those things but I've never been smart.

"Come on, you can share my bed," I say, getting to my feet. "Unless you have some gentlemanly objection?"

Draco actually cracks a smile in response to this.

"No, there are no qualms from me."

"Good, because I wouldn't have given up my bed for you and slept on the sofa," I admit, smiling a little and leading the way to my bedroom.

Draco turns out the lights as we go.


	13. Chapter 13

**Title:** Dance with the Devil  
**Author Name:** Shy Unicorn  
**Rating:**M  
**Genre:** Romance/Friendship  
**Main Character(s):** Astoria Greengrass and Draco Malfoy  
**Ship(s):** Astoria/Draco, Lucius/Narcissa, Narcissa/OC, Lucius/OC  
**Summary:** Four years after Voldemort is vanquished Astoria Greengrass starts working for 'Witch Weekly' magazine as a feature writer. Her very first job is to interview Draco Malfoy who has just made his first million galleons without the aid of his rich parents. What happens when they meet?  
**Author's Note (A/N):**So, this chapter comes with all the warnings. It's dark from the word go and ends in some M rated hotness. Enjoy!

**Dance with the Devil**

**Chapter Thirteen: Chamomile and Motherwort **

_I _am_ Draco but I'm also standing opposite him, about four years old. It doesn't strike me as odd that Other Draco's hair is the color of caramel. We stare at each. Mirror images. We hate each other…_

_I'm on the floor clutching my arm and oh, God, I didn't know it was possible to hurt this bad…the Dark Mark on my forearm is reddish-black, freshly burned, I hate it ruining my skin but at last I have eclipsed my father…I have to do something, an impossible task, but I can't, I can't, and I'll die if I don't…Dumbledore is falling… an enormous green Dark Mark sparkles overhead…_

_I'm home. Home is the Big House. I'm in the drawing room at night…A wizard flails on the ground in blind agony from the force of my curse, the Dark Lord stands beside me, this isn't glory I think bitterly, the firelight glows… My father is bound with ropes, prostrate like he's about to be torn in half by horses and I'm hysterical because he's surely going to die…the fire crackles and flames color everything… curses rain down green, red, blue and I can't see because I'm face down in the rug stinging all over…in the blackness I smell blood and Mead… _

_Greyback, feral and yellow clawed is hunched over, feeding, and I'm so disgusted I bend over to throw up… underfoot the ground is paved with gray, bloody limbs and I scream and try to get my feet off the ground because standing on them is unimaginable horror…my nausea rises up like the scream… I can feel it in the back of my throat…_

_My mother on her knees, bound and bloodied almost beyond recognition, her hair in the firelight is streaked with blood and semen, the sound of her gagging as a black robed wizard fucks her mouth makes my skin crawl…I double over retching, as if that cock is jammed into my throat too… I'm weightless and suffocating…I can't breathe!_

_Fire roars beneath me and it's hotter than hell, smoke obscures everything…Get to the door! You've got to get to the door... I'm coughing, gasping, unable to fill my lungs at all…smoke smarts in my nose and throat… I'm retching… Oh, God! I'm going to throw up… _

There's blackness and clammy heat and the familiar scent of my bedroom. I lunge left. I clear the edge of the bed as I violently throw up. Vomit splatters wetly onto the floorboards and I sink down and hang my head, groaning.

I throw up three more times before I realize where I am and that I'm no longer dreaming. I'm shaking and my stomach is a washing machine on spin cycle.

My pajamas are soaked with sweat, sticking to me like I've showered with my clothes on. I feel weak and my head burns as I lie gasping for breath. Vertigo and paralytic horror keep me plastered deliriously to the bed. My heart hammers wildly. I can't tell if I'm awake or still dreaming. Through the electrical storm in my brain the slow, struggling tune of my Legilimens Box adds a sense of unreality to everything.

Beside me Draco has sat up and is fumbling for his wand in the dark.

"Astoria?"

It takes him a couple of tries to get the lumos spell to work.

The light is blinding. I squint and see Draco peering at me. He looks as ashen as I feel. His face slackens when he gets a proper look at me. I close my eyes against the light. It hurts and it's too exhausting trying to keep them open.

Through my eyelids I sense Draco lighting candles. His feet slap against the floorboards as he rushes around the bed.

The dream clings lecherously to my skin. I vividly recall the sight and sounds of Narcissa Malfoy's degradation. Bile nudges the back of my throat and my stomach pumps pitifully one last time. Tears crash into my eyes.

I feel dirty. Defiled. Smoke blackened. I curl into myself and begin to cry. Suspended in a vacuum between waking and dreaming I feel as if I've been violated and narrowly lived to remember the ordeal. I'm ashamed and alarmed; both sick and sickened by the dream images that continue to flash like a slideshow before my eyes.

"Ugh!" Draco exclaims.

From the sudden pat of his feet and flail beside me I think Draco might have just stepped in my puke.

Through my tears I see him claw with demented fury at my Legilimens Box on the shelf in the alcove beside my bed. It's sprung open in the night and is the source of the eerie tinkling music.

Draco's teeth are bared like a wolf and he growls with animal viciousness. He slams it shut and hurls it, completely incensed, across the room. The little silver box hits the floor with a tremendous bang and bounces mockingly. He slashes his wand down and a neon purple curse cleaves into the lid like an ax blade. He hacks and hacks until it eventually stops chiming.

Momentarily I'm too stunned to cry.

"What -?"

"What did you see?" he shouts frantically, his cool hands scrabbling to frame my face. "_What did you see_?"

He sounds so imperious and afraid. His eyes are bright with fear and cut into me with laser sharp intensity. I'm more frightened by seeing him in this state than anything else. A powerful reluctance squeezes my heart as I stare into his frenzied eyes.

My lip quivers and my chin creases and I start to cry. _Really_ cry.

I pitch myself into his arms and bury my sobbing face into his neck. He holds me ferociously tight and cradles my head protectively like he's trying to stop shrapnel getting in. As I cry I want to somehow get the images _out_.

"It's okay," Draco says shakily, stroking my hair with trembling fingers.

I cling to him, limp like wet paper and cry.

The house is awake. People are moving around and lights flick on. My bedroom door claps open and Pace is there. I can't stop crying. It feels like everything is happening on the other side of a window. I ball myself up against Draco using him as a protective shell.

"Wussgoin'on?" Pace slurs blearily.

"Astoria's sick."

I think that's probably pretty obvious to Pace from the vomit covered floor and the mess that I'm in.

"Do you have any Calming Draughts?" Draco asks over the top of my wailing.

"Er, no, I don't think so," Pace mumbles, running a distressed hand through his bed-rumpled hair.

"Any Kava? Or Valerian Root?"

Pace looks uncertain.

"What kind of wizards are you?" Draco spits in exasperation. "St. John's Wort? _Chamomile_? You've got to have that! Go get her a chamomile tea and see if there's any Motherwort in the bathroom cabinet, that'll help a little."

Pace hesitates. His chocolate eyes linger on me. I don't think in all our years of friendship he's seen me upset like this.

"What did you see?" Draco asks me softly, but his hands on my cheeks are hard, forcing me to look into his eyes.

"Horrible things," I say thickly, trembling and sniffling.

I can't bear to say any more. I look down between our bodies. Draco is sleeping in one of my oversized band t-shirts and it's rucked up, exposing the tops of this thighs. They're a thicket of silvery white scars except for several red, bramble-like cuts that appear fresh.

They're self inflicted.

I grab his thigh in shock. I am now very awake.

I pin him with a look of pained disbelief. Draco freezes as he realizes he's got no way to hide what I've seen.

We stare at each other, wild eyed and exposed.

Pace reappears with a big mug of steaming herbal tea for me and a little wooden box of dried motherwort leaves that belong to Xenia. I accept the tea and scrub tears from my eyes. Draco impatiently takes the box from Pace and picks out two decent sized leaves.

"Eat these. They'll help."

I've only ever known motherwort used as a contraceptive, but I trust Draco's knowledge of plants, so I eat them. I almost instantly feel calmer and the minty taste cleans my mouth.

I gulp my tea, slopping some of it down my front as I struggle to get my breathing under control. It has been a very long time since I've had a nightmare this bad. I feel a little ridiculous as both guys watch me cautiously as if I'm some unpredictable creature.

The warming drink is definitely helping to soothe me.

"Are you okay?" Pace asks timidly when I've calmed down enough to stop crying. "Can I do anything else?"

"I'll take it from here," Draco says giving Pace a supercilious look.

"If you need anything I'm only across the hall," Pace says kindly to me.

He shoots Draco an uncertain look as he retreats.

When the door closes the room dims and a weary silence falls between Draco and I. The flickering delicate candles color everything yellow and paint brush stroke shadows up the walls. To avoid meeting my eye he cleans up my puke with a few choice spells.

I sip my drink and watch him move around to collect the damaged Legilimens Box. In the candlelight I get a good look at the shape of his bare legs, it makes my tummy coil with unexpected desire. His body really is beautifully crafted: economical and elegant. I don't know why he'd want to hurt himself.

"What did you see?" he asks quietly, holding the box between two fingers as if it's a particularly disgusting beetle.

Seeing him holding the mangled silver box and hearing his words together makes something pop into place in my brain.

"Those were your thoughts?" I ask, aghast.

Draco's mouth thins to a barely perceptible line. He nods jerkily.

"My memories."

My hand flies to cover my gasp. Tears prick my eyes again.

I set my drink down on my bedside table and wrap my arms around Draco as he slides into bed beside me. At first he's hard in my hands as he resists my embrace, mistaking it for pity or else just refusing comfort. Doggedly I hold on to him.

I feel like hell. I need the relief his body provides.

I love everything about him but being close enough to hear the sound of his breathing and feel the swell of his chest in tandem has become one of my favorite things. That calms me more effectively than any herbal remedies. The scent of his body, masculine and musky rises through the cotton of my t-shirt. His hand cradles my head and I feel safe at last.

"That was all real?" I venture. "You Know Who… the fire… _everything_?"

"Yes."

A shudder goes through me. I squeeze him tighter and nuzzle his chest, grateful beyond measure that he's alive so I can hold him like this.

I wish I could unmake his memories, that somehow I could go back in time and change things for him so that he didn't have to live that. I wish I could take away his pain. I feel so useless.

I can't stop thinking about how frantic he was in the memories and how he burned with pain. I can't shake the thought that You Know Who – the evilest wizard in known memory - was as real to Draco as I am now. He stood beside Draco and made him torture people like he was nothing more than a wand for hire.

"Why did He make you curse that wizard?"

"Because he wanted me to," Draco says with alarming simplicity. "Growing up I thought being a Death Eater was noble, you know? About protecting our world, preserving it and keeping magic safe from unworthy hands but that was just a front; a cheap way to trick wizards into signing up to be the Dark Lords slaves. The only thing he cared about was himself."

"Did He hurt you like that?"

Through the thin cotton t-shirt I trace the line of the scar that bisects his chest.

Draco laughs humorlessly at my naivete.

"He hurt anyone any chance he got! He killed indiscriminately. Crucio was probably his favorite word. There were times I almost wished to die. Death seemed like it would be a sweet release."

Draco looks as ill as I did a short time ago. In the pale candlelight his skin appears fragile like melting wax. His pale eyes are blank and unseeing as if he's in some kind of a trance, unable to look away but unwilling to acknowledge what's right in front of him.

"People think the Death Eaters were an Old Boy's club, as if there was all this comraderie and ranks with rules but it wasn't like that. It was dog eat dog. You either had the Dark Lord's favor or you didn't. And there wasn't much difference between the two. Except that when you were out of favor you were fair game to be eaten by the others. Father was His favorite target. Everyone loved watching my family suffer. Those brawling bastards hated me."

Draco looks down at me and his face is unbearably pained. I plant a kiss in the hollow of his throat to hide the way my eyes fill with tears.

"They were jealous of our lineage, our house, our wealth, everything. They scavenged and pillaged like rats any chance they got. They secretly hated my father for his prestige and then when he fell from favor they openly hated him because they could. They hated my mother because she's good-looking and... I suppose you saw what they did to her."

"Yeah," I murmur, blinking quickly to dispel my tears.

A frosty chill pulses from my heart. The hairs on my arms and on the back of my neck prickle in fresh horror.

"What happened to the man who did that?"

"They're dead or in Azkaban. We made sure of that."

"Is she okay now?" I ask timidly.

I don't know if you're ever fully okay after something like that but I hate the idea that splendid, haughty, beautiful Narcissa Malfoy has somehow been irreparably broken.

"I don't know. We never talk about any of it. I mean, how do you? Why would you?" Draco scoffs, as if the idea of talking about trauma is absurd.

"Is that why by the swimming pool you didn't want me to-?"

"I don't want to talk about it anymore," Draco says bluntly. He instantly regrets his harsh tone because he adds softly, "Drink your tea. It'll be cold soon."

I sit up and do as I'm told.

Draco blows out the candles on his side of the bed and punches his pillow into a more comfortable shape. He tugs the duvet up around his shoulders so that only his pale, pointed face peeks out.

"How are you feeling?" he asks, staring up at me.

"A bit better," I lie.

There's a painful heaviness behind my eyes and my muscles feel sore like they do the day after doing hard exercise. I think now that the nausea has passed I just have a regular hangover brewing but that's not the real problem.

Even though we're in the same bed it feels like there's a huge distance between Draco and I and it hurts like a physical heartache.

I blow out my candles and grope around for my Barney Bat stuffie that's lost in the bed somewhere. I catch him by the wing and hold him to my chest like a rabbit. He's velveteen and almost as old as I am. In places the seams are clumsily held together with brightly colored cotton from my poor attempts at repair.

In the dark I'm aware of Draco by the impressive amount of heat he's radiating. I scoot up along side him wanting to be close to him. Our feet brush together and he's as smooth as ivory. I get the urge to stroke him everywhere. His hand finds my hip and he pulls me with unexpected urgency into the warmth of his body. Our legs slot together so we can lay a breath apart.

In the hush I blink fast, making my eyes adjust to the dark. Draco blossoms out of the blackness, all hard lines and right angles. I look at him for a long time, tracing the shape of his cheek, his chin, his ear, his eyebrow, his eye, his nose. I wish I could know what he's thinking. I wish there was something I could say to comfort him.

"Thank you for looking after me tonight."

"If I hadn't been here you wouldn't have needed looking after," he says, his voice rich with self-loathing.

"I'm still glad you're here."

I tilt my forehead to rest against his and with my palms at his cheeks it's almost like holding myself. I kiss the sharp little tip of his nose and he kisses my lips. His tongue peeks into my mouth, hot and tender. My body warms up a couple of degrees as if someone has cranked up the thermostat. I stroke his hair and kiss him until he makes this wonderful groan of pleasure.

"You're so lovely. Why would you hurt yourself?" I ask in an agonized whisper.

He's already experienced so much suffering, why would he heap more on himself?

Draco captures my lips between his and sucks on them in turn in such a decadent way I melt into him.

"Why?" I demand in a pitiful mew, gripping his thigh determinedly.

With my thumb I can feel the long thin scabs as rough as tree bark inlaid into the supple muscles.

"I used to do it because I was numb inside. Since I met you the world has opened up and sometimes I feel everything all at once. I can't cope. It's the only way to let it out."

He raises his eyes and even in the dark I can see his fear and confusion. We're so close I could almost fall into his head like a pensieve if I tried.

"It's not the only way. Please don't hurt yourself anymore. I like this leg. I like every bit of you. I don't want you to hurt anymore."

I steadily hold his gaze.

I was so close to saying 'love' instead of 'like'. I think he knows this judging by the way his eyes flicker back and forth between mine studying my stillness.

"I tried to warn you. I'm damaged goods and you're… beautiful and pure. I don't deserve you."

"I'll be the judge of that," I say firmly. "I'm not some kind of saint."

"You know Asteria was the patron saint of falling stars?"

"But you're not a star. You're a constellation."

If there's anything in my soul that's beautiful, I want to give it to him. Not to make up for the past. That's impossible. But because that first night we spent together beneath the Eiffle Tower we were so happy and free together.

He kisses me slowly. His lips are chamomile. I sneak my hand beneath his t-shirt and try to read the Braille messages of the shifting muscles of his back. I want to comfort him.

I hum low in my throat as long fingered hands trace my spine with silk fine finesse, rolling up my tank top in the climb, peeling it off. I undress Draco, enjoying the build-up of tension in my body as more of him is revealed. For a moment we both look at each other in awe.

His body is lean and so pale and smooth and pure it's like looking at a glacier. He's beautiful in an incorruptible way. I could almost be happy just looking at him all night, except I have this tantalizing urge to kiss him everywhere my eyes go.

Our eyes meet and Draco is looking at me like I'm the most precious thing he's ever beheld. I expand in his gaze and my heart grows three sizes in my chest like an engorgement charm has been cast.

We kiss long and deep as we explore each other. His hands feel enormous against my petite frame as they pour down my ribs, into the hollow of my waist, up across my hip. He squeezes my bottom, crushing our hip bones together. A guilty little noise of excitement escapes me and I rake my fingers through his hair, trying to hold onto him for dear life. I palm his shoulders, his elbows, down his waist and around the miraculous tightness of his ass. He hums like an engine beneath my lips and hands.

He chains his fingers through mine and that gesture alone is so blindingly intimate I can hardly believe we're still two people. Draco stretches my arms up above my head, laying me back and I feel like unfurled parchment about to be written on. Each kiss is an exclamation point.

Draco nips my bottom lip and I feel electric. He nuzzles and kisses my neck, my chest, my breasts; with my eyes closed I'm drowning in a cavalcade of sensation. His hot tongue flicks against the tight bud of my nipple and I squeak like a mouse because it feels so good. He lathes me with his tongue, sucking and nibbling until I'm breathless and restless beneath him. His mouth follows his hands and I lift my hips eagerly when he wiggles down my shorts and my panties.

Draco plants a tender kiss beside my belly button and takes hold of my hands again. When I feel his mouth between my legs every single nerve in my body snaps to attention. Lust drenches and clings to me like oiled bathwater. My head rings as if I'm caught in the middle of a fire alarm. I buck and squeak like a wooden rollercoaster cart at a theme park. Draco makes these cute little groans that warm my chest like shorts of liquor. When my orgasm hits my knees tuck up, my toes curl and I gasp like I've just had the best surprise.

Starry white lights pop behind my eyes as I sink down on spent limbs. Draco looks incredibly pleased with himself as he sits up on his knees and stretches like a big cat. His eyes are inky and lust fogged. As he crawls to kiss my lips his cock brands my thigh and I think it's about time I took care of his needs. After all that is how this all started.

I reach between us and touch him very gently with both hands. I caress him with airy uncertainty and he doesn't resist. His eyes flutter shut and he bites his lip, his head bows and comes to rest on my shoulder. I want to give him the kind of explosive pleasure he just gave me. I want to see him and hear him lose himself. I want to be the one to make him feel that way. I think jealously of all the other girls who have seen him like this.

I brush my hands up and down his shaft, stroke the soft crepe skin of his balls and listen for the hitches in his breathing and his throaty groans when I do something he likes. I tease the hot head of his cock where the skin is baby soft and slick. I watch in wonder at the way his muscles undulate.

"I wish I could feel you inside me," I murmur against Draco's lips.

"Soon," he pants fervently. "We'll do it right. I promise."

I kiss him hard, biting his lip. God, he's so perfect sometimes. The fact that he wants to honor my request to do things properly is so considerate and touching it makes me not want to wait at all!

Draco sways unsteadily and has to kneel between my legs to keep his balance. I don't let him go. His eyes lock on mine and his face is lightly pained, his eyes glint like diamonds. He covers my hand with his, guiding and holding, showing me the rhythm he likes best.

Above me, he tosses his head against the dark, his delirious tenseness highlights the long tendons in the sides of his neck. His hands fall away and tremble along my hip bones. He's given me his trust and it feels like flying.

His head goes back, his mouth falls open and his face creases up into a look of incredulous joy. As I pull him towards me his eyes are snowflakes and I drink his lips like I'm dying of thirst. Draco shudders and whimpers against my mouth as he comes, popping like a cork and spilling champagne onto my belly.

I hold his face very close to mine and we both laugh breathlessly as we kiss.

Draco drops down on top of me, steaming my face with his panted breaths as I stroke his sweat-slicked back with my hot, damp hands. The sticky patch on my belly glues us together. I don't mind the messiness or sweatiness.

All I can think of is Draco: his face so vulnerable above mine, his eyes, his breaths, how he shook in my arms. I love him. No matter what horror stories he's lived through. I love him.


End file.
